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Barbizon  Days 


■I  L U— «■ 


BARBIZON 

DAYS 

MI  I-  f -t.  ORCH  5SEAU  -BARYF 
. , ■ • RS  b t SMITH 


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BARBIZON 

DAYS 

MILLET-COROT-ROUSSEAU-BARYE 
By  CHARLES  SPRAGUE  SMITH 


NEW  YORK 

A.  WESSELS  COMPANY 


I9°3 


Copyright,  190a 

BY 

A.  Wessels  Company 
New  York 


PRESS  OF 

BRAUNWORTH  & CO. 
BOOKBINDERS  AND  PRINTERS 
BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


TH£  J.  PAUL  GETTY  MUSEUM  LIBRARY 


Co 

HILDA 


INTRODUCTION 


A decade  of  years  ago,  we  pitched  our 
summer  tent  at  Bourron,  a little  hamlet  on 
the  borders  of  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau; 
or  rather  we  occupied  another’s  tent,  for  our 
dwelling  was  a grey  stone  cottage  similar  to 
that  of  the  peasants — our  neighbors  and 
friends.  The  Forest  itself  was  only  a few 
rods  distant  and  my  study,  the  summer 
through,  was  in  the  open  air  and  under  the 
boughs  of  one  of  its  noble  trees. 

Sitting  at  my  neighbors’  board,  when 
their  day’s  work  was  done,  roaming  the 
wood  in  all  directions,  searching  out 
especially  the  haunts  of  the  artists,  the 
months  glided  away  all  too  fast.  There 
were  not  hours  enough  in  which  to  write  of 
all  the  artists  I would  have  selected  as  themes. 

These  sketches  are  not  art  criticism,  they 
are  but  the  chronicle  of  that  summer.  If 
they  make  clearer  the  relation  between  na- 
ture and  art,  suggest  that  art’s  alphabet  is 
everywhere  awaiting  only  the  seeing  eye,  or 
if  I have  been  able  to  give  again  in  part  the 
inspiration  obtained  from  that  summer’s  con- 
verse with  the  strong,  this  record  of  Barbizon 
Days  will  have  accomplished  its  purpose. 

CHARLES  SPRAGUE  SMITH 


New  York,  July  I,  1902 


Group  of  Jules  Dupre 


The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau 


* 


THE  FOREST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU 


The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau 

If  we  call  up  before  our  minds  the  places 
made  notable  by  great  achievements  in  mod- 
ern art  history,  Paris  and  other  centres  of 
European  life  suggest  themselves.  The  only 
exception  to  this  rule,  so  far  as  I know,  is  a 
tiny  hamlet,  a single  street,  bounded  on  the 
one  side  by  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  and 
on  the  other  by  a broad  plain.  It  is  asserted 
that,  between  1825  and  i860,  there  gathered 
about  an  inn  table  in  this  hamlet  the  largest 
group  of  men  of  creative  power  with  the 
brush,  that  have  ever  assembled  anywhere 
since  the  Renaissance. 

A day  in  the  Forest  and  in  the  hamlet  of 
Barbizon  now,  after  a half  century’s  inter- 
val, cannot  give  the  same  impressions  of 
either  wood  or  village  which  those  “men  of 
1830”  received.  For  the  forest  has  been 
transformed,  its  solitudes  have  been  made  ac- 
cessible, and  thus,  to  the  artist,  profaned ; and 
the  hamlet  has  been  bound  to  the  great 
world,  not  merely  by  broad  carriage  roads, 
displacing  a foot-path  across  the  forest,  but 
even  by  a railroad  that  passes  Rousseau’s  and 
Barye’s  cottages  and  Millet’s  atelier. 

[ 11 1 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Yet,  if  one  follows  day  after  day  the  lure 
of  the  wood-paths  and  loiters  or  hastens  as 
the  hour  and  Nature  invite,  the  forest,  per- 
suaded that  you  are  not  a trifler,  will  admit 
you  to  so  intimate  a companionship  that  you 
can  think  away  every  profanation  ; and,  to 
recall  the  hamlet  seek  out  the  less  frequented 
villages,  even  though  remoter  from  the 
wood,  and  recreate,  with  features  borrowed 
from  one  and  the  other,  that  old  peasant 
street,  hidden  away  from  the  world,  leading 
from  the  plain  of  labor  to  the  cow-gate,  the 
opening  into  the  wood,  through  which  each 
morning  the  herdsman  drove  the  cattle  of 
the  village  to  their  pasture  in  the  forest. 

The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  cannot  have 
been  in  1830  in  any  true  sense  a primeval 
forest.  Man  had  used  it  too  long  for  his 
own  purposes.  Some  one  of  the  early  Cape- 
tian  dukes  or  kings  built  in  its  centre  a don- 
jon, already  old  in  the  time  of  Louis  VII. 
(12th  century)  when  we  have  the  first  his- 
torical record  of  its  existence.  In  later 
centuries,  a Renaissance  chateau,  largely  the 
work  of  Francois  I.,  displacing  the  feudal 
donjon,  became  the  favorite  residence,  out- 
side of  Paris,  of  the  Kings  of  France.  And 
in  the  forest  glades,  men  and  women,  whom 
[ **  ] 


Pi  R B I Z O N V>  • V 


MW 


, if  one  follows  day  the  -%*$ 

• the  wood-paths  an*.?  »<  uvrs  m rv-;-  • m 
.:hc  hour  and  ISatu  1 wire,  the  ‘ ■ • 

led  that  you  are  not  a trifler, 
you  to  so  intimate  a companionshi . - > 

can  think  av  ay  every  profanation  a*  , to 
recall  the  hamlet  seek  out  the  lessfrequt;  ;ed 
villages,  even  though  remoter  from  the 
wo  < j ..  and  recreate,  with  ?e , ures  borrowed 
tVo'i ■ me  and  t tin  'fid  isar 


yLiiL  ^s\T 


■ sty,  0 k 


• too  long  to;  us 

the  early  Cap e- 

tfan  duke-  ' r kings  budt  in  its  centre  a don- 
ion,  already  old  in  the  time  of  Louis  VII. 
^ i 2th  century)  when  we  have  the  first  his- 
torical <:  ord  of  its  existence.  In  1* 
centum'  Renaissance  chateau,  largely  ’"w 
work  oi  1 myois  I.,  displacing  th,  Ru<  * 
donjon,  ne  the  favorite  residence,  out- 
- ide  of  Pa’ . of  the  Kings  of  F -.nee.  And 
in  the  forest  glades,  men  and  ’ whom 

O] 


THE  FOREST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU 


history  names,  hunted  and  disported  them- 
selves. Numberless  paths  traversed  the  wood 
and  a road  had  been  built  about  it  as  early 
as  in  the  time  of  Henri  IV.  (1589-1610). 

The  forest  had  not  only  lost,  by  1830,  in 
a large  degree,  its  primeval  savagery,  its 
mystery  of  the  unexplored;  but  it  had  never 
been  vast  enough  for  a true  empire  of 
Nature.  It  is  only  fifty  miles  in  circumfer- 
ence, not  more  than  ten  in  average  breadth, 
and  there  are  neither  lakes  nor  mountains  in 
its  entire  domain,  only  shallow  pools  and  low 
ranges  of  hills. 

In  a primeval  forest  the  sunlight  scarce 
penetrates ; the  trees  are  too  tall,  their  crests 
too  serried  to  allow  the  sun’s  rays  to  glide 
between.  There  is  no  green  undergrowth, 
for  the  soil  is  buried  deep  beneath  the  brown 
leaves.  You  cannot  go  far  in  a straight  line. 
Bristling  barriers  or  long,  narrow  mounds, 
the  dying  or  dead  boles  of  old  forest  kings, 
obstruct  the  path.  Bird-notes  are  rare. 
Mountain  tops  reveal  a world  of  pine  and 
oak,  of  maple  and  birch,  sweeping  in  grand 
undulations  to  the  horizon’s  verge.  Between 
the  hills,  blue  lakes  rest,  free  of  all  intrusion 
save  the  native  life  of  the  woods.  In  mid-air, 
above  a lake,  an  eagle  or  an  osprey  floats. 

[ *3  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau,  in  the  19th 
century  at  least,  knew  nothing  of  all  this. 
And,  since  its  limited  area  with  its  many 
centuries  of  subjection  to  man  forbade  long 
ago  that  it  should  be  a primeval  forest,  I 
hold  they  have  done  right  who  have  ad- 
mitted air  and  light  to  the  wood,  and,  com- 
pleting the  work  of  earlier  foresters,  have 
made  of  the  whole  a grove,  not  of  one  char- 
acter but  manifold;  now  choked  with  un- 
dergrowth, now  stretching  in  vast  open 
templed  aisles,  and  now,  with  lesser  trees 
withdrawn  a space  paying  homage  to  some 
grand  oak  that  sheltered  perhaps  the  first 
French  king  and  survives  the  last. 

The  Master  of  it  all,  the  Lord  Creator 
of  its  surpassing  beauty,  is  the  Sun,  who  fills 
its  atmosphere  with  life,  bands  its  trunks, 
drips  in  diamonds  from  myriad  leaf-tips  at 
the  sunset  hour,  makes  gold-yellow  the 
fresh  green  of  the  under-growth,  bejewels 
heather  and  vagrant  flowers  and  rests  a mel- 
low sheen  on  lichen-covered  rocks  and  in 
open  glades.  The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau 
has  to-day  a beauty  all  its  own  and  every 
whit  as  overpowering,  when  you  have  come 
under  its  spell,  as  the  grand,  stern  beauty  of 
primeval  Nature. 

[ r4  ] 


THE  FOREST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU 


I have  said  that  the  wood  has  no  lakes, 
only  shallow  pools.  A good  friend  and 
neighbor  has  told  me  once  and  again  I must 
not  leave  the  forest  without  paying  at  least 
one  visit  to  the  beautiful  Mare  aux  Fees, 
the  Fairies’  Pond,  and  I have  just  returned 
therefrom.  The  way  thither  had  a charm  of 
noble  woods,  cleansed  of  decay  and  pruned  of 
after-growth.  The  trees  dwarfed  as  I drew 
nearer  the  Mare.  I reached  it  at  last,  a tiny 
shallow  pond,  half  choked  with  reeds  and 
whatever  else  Nature  sends  forth  from  her 
storehouse  to  do  battle  with  water  and  make 
of  ponds  first  marshes  and  then  rich  meadow 
land. 

But  if  the  wood  is  without  the  charm  of 
lakes,  it  has  an  element  of  power  and  variety 
that  few  primeval  forests  can  boast.  Eight 
to  ten  ranges  of  low  sandstone  hills  traverse 
it  from  east  to  west,  separated  often  only  by 
narrow  gorges.  Broken  tables  of  stone 
are  heaped  up  in  fantastic  piles  in  the 
gorges’  bottom  or  tilted  against  each  other 
on  the  slopes.  Huge  blocks  are  strewn 
broadcast  everywhere  among  the  trees.  The 
gorges  of  Apremont  and  Franchard  suggest 
Milton’s  description  of  the  battle  between 
the  hosts  of  heaven  and  hell,  where  hills 

[15] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


were  plucked  up  by  their  roots  and  hurled, 
encountering  mid-air,  the  wrack  falling  to 
earth.  To  the  forest  this  rock  scenery  adds 
a note  of  savagery,  and  Fenimore  Cooper 
must  have  had  this  feature  especially  in  mind 
when  he  said  that  the  Forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau exceeded  in  savage  variety  anything  he 
had  ever  seen  in  America. 

Such  then,  though  more  primeval  in 
places  and  more  reserved  to  the  few,  was  the 
forest  which  the  men  of  1830  knew. 

The  Fontainebleau  villages  have  a rich 
and  varied  charm  of  novelty  and  art-sugges- 
tion for  the  eye  accustomed  only  to  the 
countryside  of  the  New  World.  But  the 
masters  of  1830  had  not  such  other-world 
images  in  their  eyes.  The  Norman  peasant. 
Millet  had  seen  elsewhere  in  France  villages 
differing  only  in  unimportant  details.  The 
distinctive  feature  of  Barbizon,  to  the  men 
of  1830,  was  that  its  isolation  served  as  a 
screen  to  shut  away  all  suggestions  of  mani- 
fold activities  and  interests,  and  concentrate 
attention  upon  man  in  his  few  primeval  re- 
lations to  Nature — man  as  husbandman,  man 
as  husband  and  father. 

To-day,  apart  from  its  associations  with 
Millet  and  his  friends  and  its  setting  of  plain 
[16] 


The  Chaos  of  the  Gorges  of  cApremont 


I 


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'■nomaw1-  V ash  \ io&iD  siCT 


then 


; . 


■ 


d aet>’  fes  and  -interests.' and 

* 

' ; .TO  — IT!  ‘ • • : 

as  h . - . , ! a d father, 

o-day  apart  fro  nr  . .. 

MiBet  and  his  friends  i£«ett£n*«i 


the  met 

K rff  : ; 


t 


THE  FOREST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU 


and  forest,  Barbizon  yields  in  rural  charm 
and  artistic  suggestion  to  other  Fontaine- 
bleau villages. 

Montigny  looks  down  from  its  towered 
church,  overtopping  huddled  gray  cottages, 
upon  the  Loing  as  it  glides,  a modest  river, 
between  banks  sentineled  with  closely 
trimmed  poplar  trees.  By  the  riverside, 
near  the  tiny  bridge,  where  the  white  and 
color  of  kerchief  and  apron  can  catch  the 
sunlight,  the  women  of  the  hamlet  wash 
their  clothes.  If  you  linger  till  the  noon 
hour,  the  exhaling  river  breath  will  fuse  the 
green  of  the  poplar  leaves  into  a silver  haze. 

Through  Moret  and  past  Grez  the  Loing 
flows  also ; Moret  has  noble  turreted  gate- 
ways and  Grez  a church  more  picturesque 
than  that  of  Montigny,  riverscapes  more 
alluring,  and  a ruined  chateau  said  to  be  of 
Queen  Blanche,  mother  of  St.  Louis. 

Thomery  has  covered  the  high  walls  of 
its  narrow  streets,  the  street  ends  and  fa£ades 
of  its  houses  with  lush  vine  leaves ; and  the 
heavy  green  pendant  bunches  are  the  chas- 
selas,  best  of  all  the  grapes  of  Northern 
France.  Larchant,  a tiny  village  away  from 
the  forest,  was  to  Millet  and  his  friends  a 
shrine  of  yearly  pilgrimage.  It  was  once  a 

[ l7  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


walled  town  of  some  importance  with  a noble 
church,  contemporary  of  Notre  Dame  of 
Paris,  and  sacred  to  Mathurin,  a local  saint, 
born  here  in  the  fourth  century,  whose 
miracle-working  tomb  it  covered.  But  the 
Calvinists  sacked  the  church  in  1567,  and 
two  centuries  later,  1778,  a conflagration 
swept  the  town  and  completed  the  work 
of  the  iconoclasts.  A solitary  dismantled 
tower  rises  high  above  the  plain;  around 
and  over  it  multitudes  of  black-winged 
birds  hover,  as  in  Millet’s  painting  of  the 
Greville  church. 

In  the  old  days  of  post  travel,  Chailly 
was  the  last  relay  station  on  the  high  road 
from  Paris  to  Fontainebleau.  Barbizon,  a 
hamlet  of  Chailly,  across  the  fields  and  about 
a mile  away,  was  formed  of  a single  short 
street  a half-mile  in  length  joining  plain 
and  forest.  The  houses  or  farmsteads  lining 
it  consisted  of  open  courts,  where  the  manure 
was  thrown,  the  cows  milked,  the  poultry 
fed,  the  children  played.  About  each  court 
stood  the  stables  and  the  dwelling.  There 
was  no  church,  no  market-place,  no  inn, 
not  even  a graveyard  in  the  hamlet.  The 
only  access  to  it  was  afforded  by  the  almost 
impassable  road  across  the  fields  from  Chailly 
[ 18  1 


The  Lotng  at  Monttgny 


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' : .:•(  vU';  1 


THE  FOREST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU 


and  a path  through  the  forest,  that  left 
the  highway  between  Chailly  and  Fontaine- 
bleau. 

Barbizon  was  discovered,  Will  Low  tells 
us,  in  1824.  Two  artists,  Claude  Aligny  and 
Philippe  Le  Dieu,  had  come  to  Fontaine- 
bleau to  visit  their  friend  Jacob  Petit,  direc- 
tor of  a porcelain  manufactory.  The  three 
started  one  day  to  explore  the  forest  in  quest 
of  themes  for  the  brush.  By  nightfall  they 
had  lost  their  way.  Following  the  sound  of 
a horn  and  of  tinkling  bells  they  came  upon 
a cow-herd,  who  told  them  they  were  in 
the  gorge  of  Apremont  and  six  miles  from 
Fontainebleau.  He  led  them  to  the  nearby 
village  of  Barbizon  and  the  house  of  Fran£ois 
Ganne,  a thrifty  peasant,  who  with  his 
young  wife  occupied  two  rooms,  one  as 
sleeping  apartment,  the  other  for  his  trade 
as  tailor  and  for  the  sale  of  wine.  Ganne 
could  provide  food  but  not  lodging,  so  the 
cow-herd  let  them  pass  the  night  on  the 
straw  with  his  cattle.  The  next  morning 
they  explored  the  portion  of  the  wood  near- 
est the  hamlet,  the  Bas  Breau,  I presume, 
and  were  so  amazed  and  delighted  there- 
with that  Aligny  and  Le  Dieu  insisted  that 
Ganne  should  receive  them  as  permanent 

[ J9  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


lodgers.  Ganne  saw  his  advantage  and 
consented,  ceding  to  them  his  bedroom  and, 
with  his  wife,  taking  up  his  own  abode  in 
the  barn. 

Word  was  brought  back  to  Paris  of  the 
discovery  of  this  bit  of  unspoiled  primitive 
Nature  only  a day’s  walk  distant  from  that 
most  modern  of  European  capitals,  and  the 
next  year  the  artists  invaded  the  place,  occu- 
pying every  available  nook  and  corner.  Ganne 
provided  food  for  all.  Those  who  could 
not  find  lodgings  in  Barbizon  stopped  in 
Chailly  at  the  White  Horse,  among  others 
Corot,  Rousseau,  Barye,  Diaz. 

In  1830  Ganne  bought  a large  barn  and 
fitted  it  up  as  a two-story  hotel  with  win- 
dows on  the  north  side  for  studios.  On  the 
ground  floor  there  was  an  immense  dining- 
room and  cafe  with  billiard  table  and  balls 
as  large  as  a man’s  fist.  All  the  artists  took 
lodgings  with  him.  In  the  height  of  the 
season  some  slept  on  the  top  of  the  table  and 
others  in  the  barn  loft  on  the  straw.  Be- 
tween 1825  and  i860  nearly  every  French 
artist  and  representative  artists  from  every 
other  civilized  nation  visited  Barbizon. 

It  was  a glad  and  sane  “vie  de  Boheme” 
these  men  led,  to  judge  from  Low’s  report. 

[20] 


Larchant 


f ' • brought  back  to  rV.,  j 
• bit  of. 'unspoiled 
on  Ik  distant  from  th< 


. 


, 


. 


• jt‘  ....  • ; :v-  r-^n  ic<t  oh 

- 

■ 


THE  FOREST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU 


Each  season  one  was  chosen  as  leader  and 
the  joint  pleasures  took  on  a more  serious  or 
boisterous  tone  according  to  the  leader’s 
temperament.  Under  Gerome  they  deco- 
rated the  panels  of  the  dining-room;  under 
Amedee  Servint,  the  troupe  invaded  in 
masquerade  on  horseback  the  outlying  vil- 
lages. 

It  was  the  law  of  the  place  to  rise  early, 
the  most  diligent  at  five,  and  be  off  to  the 
forest,  the  fun  not  commencing  till  after  the 
dinner  hour.  Each  newcomer  had  to  smoke 
Diaz’s  pipe.  If  the  color  of  the  smoke  were 
iridescent  he  was  declared  a colorist,  if  gray 
a classicist.  The  most  jovial  festival  of  all 
was  at  the  marriage  of  Ganne’s  youngest 
daughter  to  Eugene  Cuvelier,  an  artist  of 
Arras.  The  feast  was  held  in  a barn,  candles 
in  tin  baskets  served  as  lanterns,  ivy  as  deco- 
ration. Rousseau  and  Millet  were  the  chief 
decorators.  Corot  led  the  bottle  dance,  first 
slowly,  then  fast  and  faster.  Empty  bottles 
were  placed  at  equal  distances  from  each 
other  and  the  dancers  had  to  pass  between. 
Whoever  tipped  over  a bottle  was  out  of  the 
dance.  He  who  survived  received  the  prize, 
a flower  from  the  bride. 

Corot,  Rousseau  and  Barye  came  in  1830 
[21] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


and  stayed  after  the  others  had  left.  Corot 
came  only  irregularly;  Rousseau  after  1849 
spent  only  his  summers  there ; Barye  spent 
summer  and  fall  until  his  death;  to  Millet 
it  was  home  all  the  year  round. 

The  good  “ vie  de  Boheme”  has  vanished 
with  the  artists  from  Barbizon  never  to  re- 
turn. But,  though  the  hamlet  itself  has  been 
transformed,  its  setting  remains  essentially 
unchanged. 

The  plain  of  labor  stretches  away,  broken 
by  clumps  of  trees,  hamlets,  towns,  to  Paris 
in  the  distance.  In  its  fields  men  and  women 
are  sowing,  reaping,  gleaning,  driving  cattle, 
sheep  to  pasture,  watching  sheep  by  night; 
the  old  farm  at  the  village  end  and  the  tow- 
ering hayricks  remain,  and  still,  from  the 
tower  of  Chailly  church,  the  Angelus  calls 
at  the  sunset  hour. 

Still  in  the  Bas  Breau,  noblest  wilderness 
of  all  the  forest  and  at  the  very  door  of  Bar- 
bizon, the  grand  trees  speak  as  they  spoke  to 
Rousseau;  still  in  open  glades  the  play  of 
light  and  shadow  lures  and  witches  as  it  did 
Diaz ; still  the  gorges  of  Franchard  offer 
the  background  for  scenes  of  animal  life 
they  gave  to  Barye.  The  cattle  of  Troyon 
are  still  at  pasture  in  the  meadows,  and  so 
[ **  ] 


/ 


I i 

Millet  and  Rousseau 


OU.h'e- 

irregularly;  Roussee  ,e..-  ' • 

n'  l-y  his  summer,  'ther.  - - 
, uni],  , ; and  fall  u?  j!  his  deatl  tiff  Mtuit 
it  v ^s  hpine  all  the  yea:  ro  n. « 

The  good  « vie  de  Bohdrae”  his  vznt^L 

~ 

a-  Hut-  Mough  file  hamlet  itself  has  been 

; transformed,  its  setting  -remains:  essentially 
unchanged. 

t 

uBViz.«oSl  \>n&  &UM 


n -I'.  - . II demess 

:ul  he  ' rest  and  at  Jr  , •.  y door  of  Bar- 
Hzon,  he  gri  nd  trees  spe^k  as  hey  spoke  i 

» ;■  ; op  gee  tl  play  of 

■ 

' p5  in  the  meadov 


r 


THE  FOREST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU 


everywhere  Nature  offers,  essentially  un- 
changed, the  originals  whereof  the  canvases 
of  1830  are  the  art  interpretations.  Corot 
only  is  absent  in  spirit,  for  the  sun-steeped 
haze  and  the  idyllic  tone  of  his  best  can- 
vases are  not  of  Fontainebleau. 

The  artists  who  have  supremely  ex- 
pressed the  genius  of  the  place,  are  the  two 
whose  medallions  have  been  set  in  the  rock 
near  the  old  cow-gate.  Millet  and  Rousseau; 
Millet  as  interpreter  of  human  life  indoors 
and  out,  and  of  those  landscapes  which 
spring  held  up  before  him  at  his  studio 
door,  when  the  air  was  moist  yet  clear  and 
the  gnarled  apple  trees  clothed  themselves 
for  a moment  with  surpassing  glory;  Rous- 
seau as  interpreter  of  the  woods.  Forest- 
ward  the  empire  is  all  his.  His  single 
steadfast  purpose  to  be  revealer  of  the  trees 
to  man  has  made  each  noble  stem,  each 
bosky  group,  his  own. 

Before  1830  Fontainebleau,  plain  and 
forest,  was  as  beautiful  as  to-day,  grander 
perhaps,  but  inarticulate;  now  it  is  voiceful 
everywhere,  and  it  will  not  soon  lapse  back 
into  silence. 

We  are  too  close  to  those  men  of  Bar- 
bizon  to  determine  whether  or  not  they 

[ 23  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


created  immortal  works,  and  yet,  one  thing 
at  least  we  may  affirm  without  fear  of  err- 
ing: some  of  their  canvases,  as  the  “Sheep- 
Fold  at  Night”  of  Millet  and  the  “Hoar 
Frost”  of  Rousseau,  will  long  offer  defiance 
to  forgetfulness.* 

* Both  paintings  are  in  Mr.  Walter’s  gallery  in  Baltimore. 


[24] 


oYmifc  v.  ^V:  • \ ■ n3. 


Entrance  to  Millet's  Studio 


Millet 


Church  which  appears  in 
“ The  A ngelus  ” 


MILLET 


Millet 

Those  lives  are  worthiest  that  strike 
deepest  root  in  the  soil  of  our  common  life 
and  are  yet  most  responsive  to  the  inspira- 
tions that  come  from  the  spaces  beyond. 

They  are  akin  to  the  century-old 
children  of  the  wood,  that  grasp  tenaciously 
the  black  subsoil  of  the  forest  and  aspire 
steadfastly  toward  the  sunlight.  Both  grow 
gnarled  and  gray  in  the  struggle,  the  tree 
and  the  man.  The  stancher,  the  longer- 
lived  of  the  twain,  speaks  often  courage  to 
his  feebler  comrade.  Where  such  comrade- 
ship has  existed,  the  spirit  of  those  long 
communings  lingers  in  the  still  forest. 

There  is  a life  we  would  talk  over  with 
the  trees  of  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau,  one 
that,  wearied  with  the  work,  the  disappoint- 
ment and  the  pains  of  life,  came  to  them 
constantly  for  sympathy  and  drew  as  con- 
stantly renewal  of  strength  from  their 
comradeship. 

Jean-Franyois  Millet  found  the  work 
given  him  to  do,  and  therein  he  implanted 
his  life.  Its  fruits  were  rugged,  harsh  to 
the  taste  of  his  generation.  He  might  have 
[ *7  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


drawn,  from  shallower  soil,  that  which 
pleased.  But  his  simple,  peasant  nature, 
close  in  its  qualities  to  the  homely,  in- 
dustrious, fruit-bearing  earth ; akin  in  its 
tenacity  of  purpose  to  the  firm-rooted  oaks 
of  his  beloved  forest,  refused  and  refused 
again  and  turned  back  to  work  and  suffer. 

The  canvases  into  which  his  experiences 
and  aspirations,  his  life,  were  wrought,  the 
children  born  of  his  constant  pain  and  want, 
are  freed  now,  and  while  he  rests,  as  the 
forest  trees  rest,  when  their  work  is  accom- 
plished, these  immortal  ones  are  making  the 
mystery  of  night  more  sensible,  are  deepening 
the  religious  sentiment  in  an  age  that  needs 
that  quickening,  are  intoning  in  grand, 
sober,  rugged  strophes  the  epic  of  toil. 

Jean-Fran9ois  Millet  was  born  the  4th  of 
October,  1814,  at  Gruchy,  and  was  the 
second  of  nine  children.  Henley  says : 
“ In  the  commune  of  Greville,  on  the  iron- 
bound  coasts  of  la  Manche,  stands  the  little 
hamlet  of  Gruchy.  It  is  built  at  the  sea’s 
edge,  on  the  granite  cliffs  of  la  Hague, 
overlooking  the  stormy  waters  of  Cherbourg 
Roads;  but  it  is  situate,  for  all  that,  in  a 
fertile  and  pleasant  valley,  rich  in  grass, 

[ 28  ] 


Millet's  Birthplace  at  Gruchy 

(Elder  sister  standing  in  the  doorway) 


drawn,  from  shallow*  ; vbich 

pleased.  . But  his  sin  pie,  : ■ • n:trurfl$ 

close  in  its  qualities  to  tl  In- 

dustrious, fruit-bearing  earth ; ak-tt!  its 
tenacity  of  purpose  to  the  firm  rotated  m*- 
of  his  beloved  forest,  refused  and  re 
again  and  turned  back  to  work  and  suffer. 

The  canvases  into  which  his  experience 
and  aspirations,  his  life,  were  wrought,  the 
children  born  war 

are  freed  n « iS 

brest  trees  re-;  , ! •-  •> 

.:.v  . . ■ ; » ■> a.  in  , r&y 

r T.  rj  o'  toil. 

fean-b  r . i .•>  ■>  V.  no  was  born  the  4th  of 
October,  1814,  at  Gruchy,  and  was  the 
second  of  nine  children.  Henley  says: 
“In  the  commune  of  Greville,  on  the  tot 
bound  coasts  of  la  Manche,  stan<-  n hit 
hamlet  of  Gruchy.  It  is  built  ■ ' r sea 

edge,  on  the  granite  cliff  Hay  1-, 

overlooking  the  stormy  wan  whom  g 

Roads;  but  it  is  situate  at,  in  « 

fertile  and  pleasant  v bb  ft  in  grass. 


MILLET 


corn  and  wood,  covered  with  herds  and 
peopled  with  a race  of  husbandmen.”  The 
hamlet  consisted  of  from  twenty  to  twenty- 
five  houses,  and  Millet  said  : “ A stranger 

was  rarely  seen  there,  and  such  a silence 
reigned  that  the  clucking  of  a hen  or  the 
cackling  of  a goose  created  a sensation.” 
The  village  life  was  a patriarchal  one.  In 
the  winter,  the  women  sewed  and  spun, 
while  the  men  wove  baskets,  and,  as  they 
worked,  the  old  fables  of  the  country  were 
retold  and  the  noels  sung. 

The  home  of  the  Millets,  Yriarte  describes 
as  “ a long,  low  house  of  unhewn  gray  stone, 
roughly  cemented  together,  capped  with  a 
high-pitched  thatched  roof.  An  old,  gnarled 
vine  half  hides  one  part  of  the  front  under 
its  green  leaves.”  This  type  of  peasant- 
house  is  a very  common  one  to-day  in 
Normandy  and  Brittany,  though  tiles  have 
frequently  displaced  the  thatch. 

Although  the  means  were  straitened,  an 
open-handed  hospitality  ruled.  The  wayfarer 
and  the  beggar  were  always  welcomed  to  a 
full  share  of  warmth  and  nourishment,  as 
the  ancient  traditions  of  that  part  of  France 
enjoin.  The  father  was  of  a simple,  gentle, 
devout  nature.  He  was  “ passionately  fond 
09] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


of  music  and  the  precentor  of  the  Gruchy 
church,  where  he  led  and  trained  a choir 
that  was  the  envy  and  admiration  of  all  the 
countryside.”  He  had  a tender  and  reverent 
love  for  Nature,  and  was  ever  pointing  out 
to  his  son  the  beauty  of  the  landscape,  as  a 
whole,  or  of  the  little  and  greater  things 
that  composed  it,  the  grass,  the  trees.  The 
neighbor’s  house,  half-hidden  behind  a swell 
of  the  field,  impressed  him  as  a picture. 
The  son  recalls  him  moulding  in  clay  and 
carving  in  wood. 

The  mother  was  descended  from  the 
Henry  du  Perron,  a family  of  rich  farmers, 
regarded  at  one  time  as  among  the  gentry  of 
the  region.  Simple,  pious,  devoted  to  her 
family,  and  wholly  submissive  to  her  hus- 
band’s will,  she  passed  her  life  chiefly  in  the 
fields  and  stables.  For,  it  was,  we  are  told, 
the  custom  of  the  country  that  the  wife 
should  perform  the  work  of  an  out-of-door 
laborer,  while  the  headship  within  doors  re- 
mained in  the  hands  of  the  husband’s  mother. 

The  strong  personalities  of  the  Gruchy 
home  were  the  grandmother  and  the  great- 
uncle.  The  former,  Louise  Jumelin,  widow 
of  Nicolas  Millet,  was  a peasant  woman  of 
the  best  type,  industrious,  clear-headed,  born 

[3°  3 


MILLET 


to  command.  Her  family  was  “ old  country 
stock,  strong  heads  and  warm  hearts.”  She 
is  described  as  “consumed  by  religious  fire, 
severe  for  herself,  gentle  and  charitable 
toward  others,  passing  her  life  in  good 
works,  and  with  the  ideal  of  sainthood 
constantly  before  her  eyes.”*  She  was  so 
scrupulous  and  modest,  touching  her  own 
conduct,  that  she  invariably  sought  the 
counsel  of  the  village  curate,  whenever  a 
doubt  arose  about  any  action  of  her  life. 
“Her  religion  blended  itself,”  Millet  said, 
“with  a love  of  Nature.  All  that  was 
beautiful,  grand,  terrible,  appeared  to  her  as 
the  work  of  the  Creator,  whose  will  she 
respected  and  adored.”  Francis  was  her 
favorite  grandson,  her  godson  and  the  oldest 
boy,  and  she  gave  to  him  the  name  of  her 
chosen  saint,  Francis  d’ Assise.  Millet  re- 
calls her  entering  his  bedroom  one  morning, 
when  he  was  but  a little  lad.  “ Awake,  my 
little  Francis,”  she  said;  “if  you  only  knew 
how  long  a time  the  birds  have  been  singing 
the  glory  of  the  good  God ! ” 

The  uncle,  Charles  Millet,  was  one  of 


* Henry  Naegely  says  that  Millet’s  portrait  of  his  grandmother  rep- 
resented her  with  large  eyes,  a firm,  rather  wide  mouth,  curving  with 
kindness,  and  a powerful  face,  refined  and  softened  by  a shadow  of 
mysticism.  Her  attire  was  always  rigid  in  neatness  and  simplicity. 


C 3 1 ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


those  priests  whom  the  revolution  had 
unfrocked.  He  stanchly  refused  to  swear 
allegiance  to  the  constitution,  believing  that 
it  infringed  the  rights  of  the  Pope.  During 
the  Reign  of  Terror,  he  was  proscribed  and 
had  many  hairbreadth  escapes.  When 
again  at  liberty  to  assume  his  sacred  office, 
he  joined,  with  the  work  of  priest  and 
teacher,  that  of  peasant.  We  see  him,  a 
giant  in  strength,  carrying  huge  blocks  of 
granite  to  build  a wall,  or  holding  the 
plough  handle,  with  breviary  in  pocket  and 
cassock  tucked  up  to  his  waist,  entering,  in 
a word,  into  all  the  labors  of  peasant  life 
with  the  energy  and  zest  of  a man  of 
vigorous  and  helpful  temperament;  or — 
a gentler  side  of  his  nature — teaching  the 
poor  children  of  the  commune. 

Francois’  early  education  was  pushed 
quite  far,  it  would  seem,  for  a peasant’s  son. 
He  began  the  study  of  Latin  at  twelve  and, 
though  compelled  to  devote  a large  part  of 
his  time — later  his  entire  time — to  the  fields, 
he  conquered  early  the  elementary  difficulties 
of  the  language  and  acquired  a love  therefor 
which  continued  all  through  life.  Virgil 
and  the  Latin  Bible  were  from  this  time 
forward  favorite  books. 

[3*] 


MILLET 


From  the  years  of  his  maturity  there 
comes  a story  which  interlinks  itself  with 
these  earliest  days.  Millet  was  enabled,  for 
the  first  time  in  many  years,  through  an 
order  received  for  a painting,  to  revisit  his 
childhood’s  home.  The  grandmother,  whose 
pride  and  hope  he  had  been,  and  the  weary 
mother,  had  awaited  long  his  coming,  but 
death  had  already  overtaken  them.*  Sad 
memories  blended  therefore  with  the  joy  of 
the  return  with  his  children  to  the  old 
home.  He  wandered  everywhere,  sketching 
all  the  beloved,  familiar  things.  One 
evening,  as  he  was  returning  homeward, 
the  Angelus  sounded  from  the  church  tower 
of  the  little  village  of  Eculleville.  He 
entered.  An  old  priest  was  kneeling  at  the 
altar.  He  approached  him  and  waited  until 
he  rose  from  his  knees.  Then,  touching 
him  gently  on  the  shoulder,  he  said,  in  a 
low  voice;  “ Franfois.”  It  was  the  Abbe 
Jean  Lebriseux,  his  former  teacher.  They 
embraced  weeping.  Then  the  old  priest 

*The  grandmother  died  in  1851,  the  mother  two  years  later,  with 
Millet’s  name  on  her  lips.  Millet,  on  receiving  the  news,  took  out 
his  Bible,  and  read  the  story  of  Tobit  and  his  wife.  The  idea  of 
“ V Attente  ” came  to  him  at  the  thought  of  his  mother’s  longing  for 
him,  and  he  made  a sketch  immediately.  The  painting  was  not 
exhibited  till  1854.  As  his  share  of  the  inheritance,  Millet  asked 
for  the  great  oak  cupboard  and  his  great-uncle’s  books,  and  begged 
that  the  ivy  growing  over  the  house  be  left  untouched. 

[33] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


asked,  “ And  the  Bible,  Francois,  have  you 
forgotten  it,  and  the  psalms,  do  you  re-read 
them?”  “They  are  my  breviaries,”  Millet 
answered.  “ It  is  from  them  I draw  forth 
all  that  I do.”  “You  loved  Virgil  well  in 
the  old  days.”  “I  love  him  still.” 

The  home  library  was  composed  almost 
wholly  of  religious  works,  brought  there  by 
the  grandmother  and  uncle.  Sensier  men- 
tions The  Confessions  of  Saint  Augustine; 
The  Lives  of  the  Saints;  Saint  Franfois  de 
Sales;  Saint  Jerome,  especially  his  letters; 
the  religious  philosophers  of  Port-Royal; 
Bossuet;  Fenelon;  the  Bible  in  Latin,  and 
Virgil. 

The  peasants  of  Gruchy  were  farmers 
rather  than  fishermen  ; thus  the  lad  knew  all 
the  phases  of  the  peasant-farmer’s  life  from 
personal  experience.  But  he  knew  the 
ocean  also.  In  one  of  his  reminiscences 
to  his  biographer,  Sensier,  he  described  an 
event  that  befell  on  All-Saints’-Day.  A 
terrible  storm  was  raging,  the  villagers  were 
gathered  in  the  church.  Suddenly  a seaman 
appeared  at  the  door,  crying  out  that  a 
number  of  ships  were  being  swept  ashore 
and  upon  the  rocks.  He  called  for  volun- 
teers; fifty  men  rose  and  accompanied  him,. 

[34] 


MILLET 


The  peasants  saw  from  the  cliffs  five  ships, 
in  quick  succession,  broken  upon  the  rocks 
and  all  on  board  drowned.  Many  other 
ships  met  a like  fate  on  the  following  day. 
The  boats  sent  to  the  rescue  were  overturned 
and  the  men  could  render  no  assistance. 
One  ship  drove  in  between  two  rocks  and 
the  crew  escaped.  Franfois,  noticing  a 
heap  upon  the  shore  covered  with  a sail 
cloth,  lifted  a corner  and  saw  a mountain  of 
corpses. 

So  the  years  passed  until  1832.  These 
eighteen  years  form  the  first  period  of 
Millet’s  life.  To  the  influences  that  sur- 
rounded him  during  this  germinating  age, 
as  well  as  to  his  inherited  traits,  he  owed 
the  fundamental  elements  of  his  character 
and  expression.  The  lad  was  intelligent, 
studious,  persistent.  Had  he  not  been,  he 
would  not  have  mastered  the  Latin  Bible 
and  Virgil.  The  artistic  element,  which 
appeared  as  a germ  in  the  grandmother  and 
labored  awkwardly  for  expression  in  the 
father,  was  already  moving  actively  in  him. 
The  engravings  of  the  Bible  excited  a desire 
of  imitation.  During  the  siesta,  while  the 
rest  slept,  he  made  sketches  of  whatever  was 
before  him,  “ the  garden,  the  stables,  the 
[35] 


B ARBIZON  DAYS 


fields  with  the  sea  for  horizon,  and  often  the 
animals  that  passed.”  The  father  only- 
simulated  sleep  and  watched  with  content 
the  developing  facility  of  the  son;  he  had 
the  longing  without  the  power ; perhaps 
the  bon  Dieu  had  given  both  to  Francois. 

He  who  was  later  to  be  the  painter  of 
peasant  life  had  received  from  the  bon 
Dieu  exactly  that  early  training  necessary 
to  fit  him  for  his  work.  If  one  thing  were 
lacking  therein,  if  one  thing  is  lacking  in 
Millet’s  representations  of  peasant  life,  it  is 
sunlight,  glad  resting,  joy,  laughter. 

Y et  j oy,  undimmed  by  care,  can  hardly  have 
come  oftentimes  to  that  Gruchy  household ; 
the  mouths  were  too  many,  the  soil  was  too 
old,  too  obstinate,  the  temper  of  the  ruling 
spirits  too  serious  ; the  house  itself,  to  judge 
from  the  photograph,  is  stern  and  bare. 
The  mother,  a gentlewoman,  bearing  nine 
children  and  doing  the  rude  work  of  the 
field  and  stable,  never  complaining,  yet 
always  weary;  the  gentle,  simple-hearted 
father;  the  strong-spirited,  devout  grand- 
mother; the  rising  with  the  sun;  the  in- 
cessant toiling  throughout  the  slow  year; 
and,  for  reward,  existence  and  the  conscious- 
ness of  duty  done — everything  here  im- 

[36] 


MILLET 


pressed  upon  the  plastic  mind  of  him  who 
was  part  of  it  all  the  serious  meaning  of 
life,  its  worthiness  and  its  rude  grandeur  too, 
where  the  burden  was  borne  with  the  man- 
liness and  womanliness  he  saw  exhibited  in 
those  nearest  to  him.  No  master  could 
ever  instruct  him  as  Nature  had  done ; he 
had  the  knowledge  now;  he  did  not  yet 
know,  he  would  not  learn  for  nearly  a score 
of  years  how  to  give  it  expression. 

One  day,  on  returning  from  mass,  he 
noticed  a peasant,  an  old  man  with  stooping 
figure,  and  was  astonished  at  the  perspective. 
It  came  to  him  as  a kind  of  revelation. 
Hastening  home,  he  made  a charcoal  sketch. 
His  father,  on  seeing  it,  was  profoundly 
moved  and  said:  “My  poor  Francois,  I see 
well  that  you  torment  yourself  with  this 
idea.  I would  gladly  have  sent  you  to  learn 
this  profession  of  painter,  which  they  say  is 
so  fine,  but  I could  not.  You  are  the  oldest 
of  my  boys,  and  I had  too  much  need  of 
you;  but  now  the  others  are  growing  up 
and  I will  not  hinder  you  from  learning 
what  you  so  much  desire  to  know.  We 
will  presently  go  to  Cherbourg  and  ascertain 
if  you  have  in  truth  the  talent  to  gain  your 
living  in  this  occupation.” 

[37] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


The  lad  finished  for  the  Cherbourg  visit 
two  sketches,  the  first,  of  two  shepherds  and 
a hill-slope  with  sheep.  One  shepherd  was 
playing  a flute  and  the  other  listening.  The 
shepherds  wore  the  jackets  and  wooden 
shoes  of  his  country.  The  hillock  with 
pasturing  sheep  was  an  apple  orchard  be- 
longing to  his  father.  The  second  drawing 
represented  a starry  night,  with  a man 
coming  out  of  a house  carrying  bread  which 
a second  received.  Sensier  says  that  he  has 
looked  at  this  drawing  for  thirty  years  and 
it  is  the  work  of  a man  who  already  knows 
the  great  drift  of  art.  One  would  believe 
it  a sketch  by  a seventeenth  century  artist. 

The  painter,  Mouchel,  whom  Franpois 
Millet  and  his  father  consulted  in  Cher- 
bourg, refused  to  believe  these  drawings  the 
work  of  the  lad.  When  finally  convinced 
by  their  repeated  protestations,  he  cried  out 
to  the  father  : “ Eh  bien,  vous  serez  damne, 
pour  l’avoir  garde  si  longtemps,  car  il  y 
a chez  votre  enfant  l’etoffe  d’un  grand 
peintre!” 

The  career  of  Franpois  Millet  was  de- 
cided; his  father  even  urged  him  toward  it. 

The  lad  entered  the  studio  of  M.  Bon 
Dumoucel,  commonly  called  Mouchel.  Sen- 

[38] 


MILLET 


sier  describes  this  first  master  as  an  original 
genius,  self-educated,  loving  art  and  the 
country.  Although  the  journal  of  the 
following  years  is  somewhat  vague  in  details, 
the  broad  lines  are  sufficiently  clear.  Millet 
remained  only  two  months  with  Mouchel 
and  learned  less  from  him  than  from  his 
work  in  the  Cherbourg  museum,  studying 
and  copying  from  the  old  masters.*  His 
father’s  death,  in  1835,  recalled  him  to 
Gruchy,  and  he  remained  there  for  a time, 
the  charge  of  affairs  naturally  devolving  upon 
him  as  the  oldest  son.  But  his  work  in 
Cherbourg  had  excited  a great  deal  of  local 
interest,  and  the  notabilities  bestirred  them- 
selves in  order  to  prevent  his  going  back  to 
the  life  of  the  farm.  When  his  grandmother 
heard  thereof,  she  said:  “My  Francis,  we 

must  accept  the  will  of  God;  your  father, 
my  Jean-Louis,  said  you  should  be  a painter; 
obey  him  and  return  to  Cherbourg.” 

On  his  return  he  studied  with  another 
painter,  Langlois,  a pupil  of  Gros,  but  the 
relationship  as  before  is  represented  as  merely 
a nominal  one.  He  worked  in  the  museum 
and  “read  everything,  from  the  Almanack 

* The  museum  contained  good  paintings  by  Dutch  and  Flemish 
masters. 

[39  ] 


BARBIZON  Days 


Boiteux  of  Strasburg  to  Paul  de  Kock,  from 
Homer  to  Beranger,  and,  with  passion, 
Shakespeare,  Walter  Scott,  Byron,  Cooper, 
Goethe’s  Faust  and  the  German  ballads.” 
Victor  Hugo  and  Chateaubriand  especially 
impressed  him.  His  biographer  adds  a 
paragraph  which  shows  how  just  was 
Millet’s  native  art  sense.  “He  would  have 
wished  to  reject  all  of  his  (Hugo’s)  exagger- 
ations, in  order  to  compose  for  his  own  use 
a Victor  Hugo  of  two  or  three  volumes, 
which  would  have  been  the  Homer  of 
France.”* 

Langlois  was  so  impressed  with  the  power 
and  originality  of  his  pupil,  that  he  ad- 
dressed, in  August,  1836,  a most  enthusiastic 
letter  about  him  to  the  mayor  and  members 
of  the  municipal  council,  asking  their  assist- 
ance, in  order  to  send  him  to  Paris,  and 
gave  them  his  personal  pledge  that  posterity 
would  do  them  honor,  if  they  consented 
thereto,  “for  having  been  the  first,  on  this 
occasion,  to  assist  in  endowing  the  fatherland 
with  one  great  man  more.”  The  municipal 

* Theocritus  and  Burns  were  later  great  favorites.  He  said: 
“ The  reading  of  Theocritus  proves  to  me  more  and  more  that  one 
is  never  so  much  Greek  as  in  reproducing  very  naively  impressions, 
it  matters  little  where  received,  and  Burns  also  proves  that  to  me.” 
In  1864  he  began  the  study  of  Italian,  in  order  to  read  Dante  in  the 
original. 

[ 40] 


MILLET 


council  voted  him  an  annuity  of  four  hundred 
francs,  to  which  the  general  council  for  the 
Department  of  la  Manche  added  later  six 
hundred  francs.  This  grant.  Millet  said,  did 
not  continue  long  and  was  far  from  meeting 
his  expenses.* 

Dismissed  with  the  devout,  patriarchal 
exhortations  of  his  grandmother,  Millet 
reached  Paris  in  January,  1837.  He  says 
of  himself  at  this  period:  “I  came  to  Paris 
with  my  ideas  all  formed  in  art,  and  I have 
not  judged  it  a propos  to  modify  them.  I 
have  been  more  or  less  fond  of  such  and 
such  masters,  or  such  and  such  form  of 
expressing  art ; but  I have  made  no  changes 
in  the  fundamentals.” 

He  was  proud,  sensitive,  shy,  awkward, 
and  had,  in  consequence,  many  difficulties 
and  unpleasant  experiences  in  establishing 
himself  in  the  capital.  At  first  he  made 
no  attempt  to  enter  upon  a regular  course 
of  study.  While  wandering  hither  and 
thither  he  entered  the  Louvre,  as  it  were 
by  haphazard,  and  lived  therein  a month. 
Michelangelo  impressed  him  most,  thereafter 

* 600  francs  were  voted  unanimously  by  the  Municipal  Council 
the  first  year.  The  following  year  the  annuity  was  reduced  to  400 
francs  and  was  only  secured  by  the  mayor’s  casting-vote.  In  1839 
the  annuity  of  Cherbourg  was  withdrawn. 

[41  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


the  early  masters,  the  great  Italians  of  the 
Renaissance,  Murillo  in  his  portraits,  Ribera, 
Poussin  and  Lesueur  of  the  French  school. 
“ I loved,”  Millet  said,  “ everything  that  was 
powerful,  and  I would  have  given  all  of 
Boucher  for  a single  nude  of  Rubens.”  Rem- 
brandt blinded  him  at  first;  he  felt  he  could 
only  approach  him  gradually.  He  never 
made  but  one  copy  of  the  masters,  and  that, 
in  a single  hour  and  without  premeditation,  of 
Giorgione’s  “Concert.”  In  the  Luxembourg, 
he  saw  only  theatrical  effects  and  cared  for 
nothing  save  the  work  of  Delacroix. 

He  said  later:  “After  Michelangelo  and 

Poussin,  I have  held  to  my  first  liking  for 
the  early  masters,  for  those  subjects  simple 
as  infancy,  for  those  unconscious  expressions, 
for  those  beings  who  say  nothing  but  feel 
themselves  overburdened  with  life,  or  who 
suffer  patiently  without  cries,  without  com- 
plainings, who  bear  the  oppression  of  human 
law'  and  have  not  even  the  idea  of  calling 
anyone  to  account  for  it.”  Michelangelo 
and  Poussin  remained  his  life-favorites,  and 
there  is  much  in  his  work  that  suggests 
both,  Poussin’s  strong,  sober  coloring  and 
absence  of  sensuous  qualities,  and  Michel- 
angelo’s ruggedness  and  strength  of  line. 

[ 42  ] 


MILLET 


He  was  homesick  and  utterly  solitary,  for 
he  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  anyone  from 
fear  of  being  laughed  at.  Naturally  he 
wished  to  return  to  the  Gruchy  home,  but 
the  Louvre  held  him. 

He  put  off  for  a long  time  entering  a 
studio,  partly  through  native  shyness,  partly 
because  he  was  not  drawn  toward  the  notable 
artists  of  the  day.  He  chose  at  last  the 
studio  of  Paul  Delaroche,  apparently  as  a 
kind  of  pis  alter , but  he  was  too  original  and 
unadaptable  to  fit  into  the  life  of  the  place. 
His  comrades  of  the  atelier  dubbed  him 
“ Vhomme  des  bois  ” His  figures  surprised 
them,  but  they  looked  upon  him  as  bizarre, 
revolutionary  and  without  a future.  He 
left  the  studio  soon,  but  returned  for  a time 
at  Delaroche’s  personal  entreaty.  The 
master  recognized  the  strength  of  the  pupil, 
but  it  apparently  rather  startled  him  than 
otherwise,  for  he  had  not  the  knowledge 
or  skill  requisite  to  guide  it.  In  1839,  when 
Millet  was  preparing  to  compete  for  the Prix  de 
Rome , Delaroche  told  him  he  should  use  his 
influence  that  year  to  secure  the  scholarship 
for  another  of  his  pupils ; the  following  year 
he  would  support  Millet’s  claims.  Millet, 
indignant  at  what  he  considered  the  unfair- 
[ 43  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


ness  of  this  procedure,  withdrew  definitively 
from  Delaroche’s  studio. 

Thenceforth  Millet  was  his  own  guide. 
He  hired  with  a comrade  from  the  Dela- 
roche  studio,  Louis-Alexandre  Marolle,  a 
little  attic  studio,  and  worked  also  in  the 
evenings  from  the  living  model  and  the 
antique.  Millet  was  then,  as  always  after- 
ward, excessively  shy  and  awkward.  His 
friend,  Marolle,  served  him  as  medium  of 
communication  with  the  rest  of  the  world, 
accompanying  him  everywhere  and  acting 
as  spokesman.  A great  amount  of  light 
work  was  thrown  off  at  this  period,  in  order 
to  secure  funds  wherewith  to  exist,  for 
example,  pastels  in  imitation  of  Watteau 
and  Boucher.  The  highest  price  received 
therefor  was  twenty  francs,  while  portraits 
sold  as  low  as  five  francs.  But  he  was 
working  diligently  meantime,  reading  the 
best  books  he  could  find  on  the  human 
form,  and  especially  everything  connected 
with  Michelangelo,  whom,  Sensier  says, 
“he  never  ceased  to  regard  as  the  highest 
expression  of  art,”  and  whom  Millet  himself 
describes  as  “ that  one  who  haunted  me  all 
my  life.” 

We  have  followed  Millet’s  course  during 
[44] 


MILLET 


these  earliest  years,  step  by  step,  watching 
the  unfolding  of  his  nature.  It  is  already 
plain  that  his  talent  is  too  original,  his  will 
too  restive  under  rules  imposed  by  others,  to 
follow  in  the  beaten  path.  If  there  is  suffi- 
cient native  strength  within  him,  backed 
by  persistency,  and  fortune  is  not  too  rigorous, 
V homme  des  bois  will  subject  a field  unto 
himself,  in  untilled  ground,  and  broaden  the 
domain  of  art.  The  ten  years  that  follow 
his  leaving  Delaroche’s  studio  are  the  ones 
in  which  this  question  is  decided.  His 
nature  slowly  grows  toward  its  maturity,  his 
consciousness  of  the  work  given  him  to  do 
becomes  distinct,  and  his  resolve  to  do  this 
and  naught  else  so  tempered  by  adversity 
that  it  can  hold  steadfast. 

He  married  twice  during  these  years ; 
first,  in  1841,  a delicate  girl,  who  only 
lived  two  and  a half  years,  and  again,  in 
1845,  the  brave,  strong  woman  who  was 
his  courageous  helpmeet  until  the  end.* 
The  greater  part  of  this  period  was  spent  in 
Paris,  though  we  find  him  at  Cherbourg  at 
different  times.  The  good  people  had  been 
disturbed  at  his  way  of  using  the  bounties 

* Millet  always  said  that  the  years  1843-44  were  the  hardest  in 
his  life,  when  his  first  wife,  dying,  left  him  a widower  and  childless. 

[45] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


accorded,  and  gave  him  in  1841,  perhaps 
as  a test  of  his  powers,  the  commission  to 
paint  the  portrait  of  a deceased  mayor. 
The  work  did  not  meet  with  their  approval, 
they  refused  to  accept  it,  and,  it  is  said, 
even  his  old  teacher,  Langlois,  abandoned 
him;  but  a few  years  later,  in  1844,  when 
a Salon  picture  had  attracted  considerable 
attention,  Cherbourg  gave  him  a better  re- 
ception. He  was  even  offered  a professor- 
ship of  drawing  in  the  college,  but  wisely 
refused  the  position. 

The  struggle  for  existence  during  these 
years  was  at  times  a severe  one.  The  little 
family  was  often  on  the  verge  of  actual 
want,  or  even  passed  it.  Thus  Millet, 
receiving  a hundred  francs,  brought  him 
by  a friend  in  1848,  said:  “Thanks;  they 

come  in  season.  We  have  not  eaten  for  two 
days;  but  the  important  thing  is  that  the 
children  have  not  suffered — they  have  had 
thus  far  their  nourishment.”  He  painted 
anything  and  everything  asked  of  him  ; e.  g., 
in  Cherbourg  in  1841,  signs  for  a veterinary 
surgeon,  a tight-rope  dancer,  a sail  maker. 
The  thirty  francs  he  received  for  a sign 
painted  for  a midwife  in  Paris  in  1848 
supported  him  and  his  for  fifteen  days. 

[46] 


MILLET 


Diaz,  who  had  formed  a high  opinion  of 
his  talents,  was  indefatigable  in  his  efforts 
to  secure  him  a patronage,  as  was  Rousseau 
at  a later  period;  and  Sensier,  who  made 
his  acquaintance  in  1 847,  was  thenceforward 
his  devoted  friend;  but  the  comradeship 
among  the  few  younger  men  who  were 
loyal  to  him,  while  affording  him  a moral 
support,  never  kept  want  long  or  far  distant. 

Sensier  mentions  the  prices  he  received 
for  his  pictures  in  1848;  six  beautiful 
drawings  for  a pair  of  shoes,  four  portraits 
of  Diaz,  Barye,  Victor  Dupre  and  Vechte, 
life  size  to  the  bust,  for  twenty  francs ; any 
number  of  charming  sketches,  at  prices 
ranging  from  five  francs  to  one. 

His  art  studies  consisted  chiefly  in  satu- 
rating himself  with  the  spirit  of  the  old 
masters,  whom  he  had  chosen  as  his  guides. 
One  who  has  known  and  loved  Millet  cannot 
walk  to-day  through  the  Louvre  without 
recalling  how  he  haunted  it.  Poussin’s 
cool,  strong  landscape  in  the  Salon  Carre , 
the  devout  work  of  the  child-masters  of  Italy 
in  the  long  room  beyond,  and  Michel- 
angelo’s drawings  have  a more  intimate 
interest  for  us  because  of  what  they  taught 
Millet. 

[ 47  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


But  Millet  had  not  yet  reached  entire 
self-consciousness.  Perhaps  it  would  be  more 
true  to  say  that  he  did  not  yet  dare  to 
be  altogether  himself,  on  account  of  the 
home  which  little  ones  were  fast  entering. 
He  must  earn  money  and  therefore  paint 
what  could  be  sold.  He  had  acquired  re- 
markable facility.  Sensier  recalls  walks  in 
the  fields  (Montmartre  or  Saint-Ouen)  at 
this  time,  and  finding  in  his  atelier , on  the 
morrow,  all  the  impressions  of  the  outing  as 
finished  paintings.  He  was  known  among 
artists  as  the  “ Master  of  the  Nude,”  that 
being  the  class  of  subjects  wherein  he  had 
done  most  and  his  best  work.  Sensier  says: 
“Until  1847,  Millet  painted  external  life, 
human  nudity,  in  its  most  unconscious  state, 
the  purely  physical  life  of  beings  that  let 
existence  flow  past  as  the  stream  of  oblivion. 
He  did  not  paint  the  soul  and  its  torments, 
as  he  did  later,  but  living  forms,  and  he 
depicted  them  with  the  alluring  charm  of 
material  beauty,  in  their  movements  as  well 
as  in  their  repose.” 

To  judge  from  his  biographer’s  descrip- 
tion, Millet’s  facility  with  his  brush  and  the 
demands  of  life  combined  for  a time  to  carry 
him  to  the  limits  of  propriety.  An  ex- 

[ 48  ] 


MILLET 


hibition  at  Havre  in  1 845  and  a ‘‘Temptation 
of  Saint  Jerome”  of  the  same  period  repre- 
sent this  extreme  phase.  Reports  thereof 
awoke  apprehension  in  the  Gruchy  home. 
The  good  grandmother  acted  shrewdly  here. 
She  did  not  upbraid  her  beloved  foster-child, 
but  sent  him  a patriarchal  exhortation. 
“Follow  the  example  of  that  man  of  your 
own  profession  who  used  to  say:  ‘I  paint 

for  eternity.’  For  no  cause  whatever,  permit 
yourself  to  do  evil  works  or  to  lose  sight  of 
the  presence  of  God.  With  Saint  Jerome, 
think  incessantly  that  you  hear  the  trumpet 
that  shall  summon  us  to  judgment.”* 

Millet  always  cherished  a reverential  love 
for  his  grandmother,  and  never  became 
modern  Parisian  enough  to  have  been  in- 
sensible to  this  appeal.  “Millet  had  a 
sensuous  organization,”  Sensier  says,  “in  love 
with  the  flesh,  but  his  soul  was  upright  and 
almost  without  a spot.  In  the  midst  of  our 
decadence,  he  has  guarded  the  purity  of  a 
primitive  heart.” 

“The  atmosphere  of  Paris  was  heavy  to 
him,  the  small  talk,  . . . the  ambitions,  the 
morals,  the  fashions,  threw  him  into  a world 

* Millet’s  father  charged  him,  on  his  deathbed,  “never  to  execute 
a work  of  impiety,  and  that  all  his  desire  should  be  to  praise  God  by 
thought,  word  and  deed.” 

[ 49  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


he  did  not  understand.”  The  revolution  of 
1848  came.  Millet,  with  all  other  citizens, 
had  to  shoulder  a musket  and  defend  the 
assembly.  At  the  capture  of  the  barricades 
of  his  quarter,  Rochechouart,  he  saw  the 
chief  of  the  insurgents  fall.  That  intensified 
his  aversion  to  Paris.  He  had  already  sent 
two  pictures  to  the  Salon  in  1848,  one  of 
which,  “ Le  Vanneur  ” (a  man  winnowing 
corn),  attracted  attention.  It  was  his  first 
important  attempt  to  paint  a scene  from  farm 
life.  Ledru-Rollin,  the  minister,  purchased 
it  for  five  hundred  francs,  and  gave  him 
a commission  to  paint  another  canvas  for 
eighteen  hundred  francs.  Millet  chose  for 
his  subject  “Hagar  and  Ishmael.”  It  was  a 
nude,  and  the  work  was  almost  done  when 
he  overheard  a conversation  between  two 
young  men,  as  he  was  passing  one  evening 
before  the  art  store  of  Deforge.  They  were 
looking  at  his  “ Baigneuses”  (Bathers). 
“ Do  you  know  the  author  of  this  picture?” 
one  asked.  The  other  replied:  “Yes,  it’s  a 
fellow  called  Millet,  who  only  paints  nude 
women.” 

On  reaching  home,  Millet  told  his  wife 
the  story,  and  added:  “If  you  wish,  I will 
never  again  do  any  more  of  this  painting ; 

[ 50  ] 


Les  Batgneuses 


as 


MILLET 


life  will  be  still  harder,  you  will  suffer  from 
it,  but  I shall  be  free  and  shall  accomplish 
that  which  has  long  occupied  my  mind.” 
She  replied  simply:  “I  am  ready;  do  ac- 
cording to  your  will.”  “Hagar  and  Ishmael” 
was  left  unfinished,  and  a second  scene  from 
peasant  life,  “ The  Haymakers  Resting,” 
took  its  place. 

Millet  had  just  received  the  pay  therefor, 
when  political  troubles  again  broke  out,  the 
manifestation  of  the  thirteenth  of  June, 
1849;  the  cholera  was  also  at  its  height. 
He  decided  therefore  to  abandon  Paris  for 
a time,  and  went,  with  his  friend  Jacque,  to 
Barbizon. 

Will  Low  describes  charmingly  the  en- 
trance of  the  peasant  painter  into  that  realm 
of  labor  he  was  to  immortalize,  and  where 
he  was  to  find  his  true  self.  Jacque,  it 
seems,  had  heard  of  the  quaint,  tiny  village 
on  the  borders  of  the  great  forest,  but  had 
forgotten  all  save  the  last  syllable  of  its 
name,  “zon.”  So  the  two  families  took 
the  diligence  from  Paris  through  Chailly 
to  Fontainebleau.  Thence  the  brother 
artists  explored  the  forest  on  foot,  finding 
Barbizon  at  last,  and  entering  it  through 
the  cow-gate.  The  following  day,  Millet 
[St] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


drove  with  his  wife  and  children  to  where 
the  footpath  left  the  highway  for  the 
village.  Dismounting,  the  Norman  peasant 
took  his  two  little  girls  on  his  broad 
shoulders  and  trudged  ahead,  while  the 
wife  followed  with  an  infant  of  a few 
months  in  her  arms,  a servant  with  a basket 
of  provisions  accompanying  her.  Rain  fell, 
the  mother’s  skirts  had  to  be  raised  to  shield 
the  little  one,  and  a peasant  woman,  noticing 
the  bedraggled  procession,  took  the  Millets 
for  strolling  actors. 

Their  first  home  was  at  the  village’s 
western  end,  away  from  the  forest.  A 
peasant,  proprietor  of  a cottage  of  two 
rooms,  ceded  one  of  them,  and  the  other, 
which  he  himself  occupied,  served,  with 
its  fireplace,  as  kitchen  and  dining-room 
for  both  families.  Millet’s  atelier  was 
across  the  street.  But  Millet  soon  dis- 
covered, at  the  other  end  of  the  village, 
an  unoccupied  peasant  house,  one  story 
and  a loft  in  height,  and  this  became 
his  permanent  home.*  A garden,  forty- 
eight  feet  wide,  ran  its  entire  length.  A 
door  in  the  high  stone  wall  at  the  rear  of 


* The  building  was  61  feet  long,  16  feet  wide  and  17  feet  from 
ground  to  ridge-pole. 

[ 52  ] 


' 

* 

. 

' 

pi  oiV>»£.  z.  W.YslJl 

. 

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• ' i J 

' 


V 


Millet 's  Studio — Interior 


MILLET 


the  garden  admitted  to  the  plain.  The 
house  contained  three  rooms  on  the  ground 
floor.  The  one  nearest  the  street  had 
been  used  as  a barn  and  was  without  floor, 
save  the  bare  earth,  to  judge  from  William 
Hunt’s  account.  It  was  rarely  heated,  and 
then  only  by  burning  straw.  The  entrance 
to  it  was  from  the  street  end,  and  a window, 
three  feet  square,  admitted  light.  This 
room  served  Millet  as  atelier , and  the  two 
rear  rooms,  floored,  plastered,  and  with 
rafter  ceilings,  as  home. 

Five  years  later,  his  proprietor  transformed 
a barn  across  the  garden  into  an  atelier,  by 
putting  in  floor  and  rafter-ceiling  and  cutting 
a large  window  and  a door,  opening  toward 
the  old  home,  and  rented  it  to  Millet. 
The  old  atelier  became  a part  of  the  living- 
quarters,  which  were  enlarged  as  time  went 
on,  a home  which  many  children  entered.* 
The  father’s  hope,  however,  to  have  a home 
of  his  own,  “a  nest  for  his  little  toads,”  as 
he  expressed  it,  was  never  realized. 

Millet  came  to  Barbizon  expecting  to 
linger  only  for  a brief  period,  but  remained 
there  twenty-seven  years,  or  until  his  death. 
The  hamlet  has  been  transformed  and 


♦Piednagel  says  Millet  had  nine  children. 

[53] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Millet’s  home  has  not  escaped  ; the  house 
and  garden  have  disappeared.  The  atelier 
externally  is  unchanged,  but  within  has 
been  dismantled.*  Fortunately,  word- 
sketches  remain,  drawn  by  his  friends 
Sensier,  Piednagel,  Claretie,  Yriarte,  William 
Hunt  and  others,  and  the  son  of  the  artist, 
Carl  Bodmar,  has  preserved  in  photographs 
the  garden,  the  house  as  seen  from  the 
court,  from  the  street,  and  the  street  itself, 
as  they  were  in  Millet’s  time. 

The  French  villages,  upon  the  borders  of 
the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau,  consist  of  low 
houses,  built  of  stone  and  plaster,  and  white- 
washed. The  whitewash  takes  on,  with 
the  years,  the  color  of  a lichen,  and  the  red 
tiles  of  the  roofs  become  a deep,  dull  bronze, 
fringed  here  and  there  with  rusty  moss. 
The  houses,  or  the  groups  of  structures 
which  constitute  the  homesteads,  have  an 
exterior  and  relatively  unattractive  side 
turned  toward  the  outer  world,  and  an 
interior  of  court,  or  courts  and  garden,  shut 
away  by  high  walls  over  which  no  intrusive 
eye  can  look.  Sometimes  the  main  house 

* Millet’s  atelier  was  very  simply  furnished  with  a few  casts,  the 
spoils  from  the  woods  and  fields,  his  favorite  books,  and,  in  the 
corner,  a heap  of  blouses,  aprons,  kerchiefs,  etc.,  sun  and  weather 
stained  and  bleached.  Blue  was  his  favorite  color. 

[54] 


MILLET 


turns  an  end  or  a broad  si  card  the 

street  and  its  wall  tor  ms  \\v  r !■  parapet 
which  protects  the  intimac\  < < ru  some  life. 
Millet’s  atelier  turned  its  b ■ . i .vide  to  the 
village  street,  his  little  house  its  end. 

We  have  the  photographs  before  us  as 
we  write,  and  also  the  memory  of  the 
street,  seen  but  yesterday.  Between  the 
atelier  and  the  house,  over  the  wall  which 
seems  :<>  have  twice  the  height  of  the 
peas,'?;?  ornan  in  the  foreground,  thick- 
foiiaged  trees  rise  in  a bouquet.  Wayward 
sprays  rof  vines,  that  are  growing  luxuriantly 
withi ft, ^ /\o 

anywhere  along  Fontaine- 

bleau hamlets  and  you  will  find  numberless 
pendants  to  this  picture.  We  have  pulled 
the  cord  and,  as  the  hell  jangles  within, 
someone  admits  us  to  the  home  world. 


Piednagel 

describe 

s the 

house 

as  “ a 

maisonette 

literally 

covered 

with 

a thick 

growth  of 

clemati 

S.  ’ V V .! 

nd  :a.' 

mine  of 

Virginia. 

The  \m 

■ i 'IT-  ' v 

painted 

white  and 

without 

on  at. 

closed  to  him  who  i. 

this  modest  dwrelhi 

garden,  all  filled  with 

Flowers,  vegetables,  ;u  ; i 

[55] 


AS® 


The  Street  of  Barbizon  Showing  cMillet's 
Studio  and  Home 


MILLET 


turns  an  end  or  a broad  side  toward  the 
street  and  its  wall  forms  part  of  the  parapet 
which  protects  the  intimacy  of  the  home  life. 
Millet’s  atelier  turned  its  broad  side  to  the 
village  street,  his  little  house  its  end. 

We  have  the  photographs  before  us  as 
we  write,  and  also  the  memory  of  the 
street,  seen  but  yesterday.  Between  the 
atelier  and  the  house,  over  the  wall  which 
seems  to  have  twice  the  height  of  the 
peasant  woman  in  the  foreground,  thick- 
foliaged  trees  rise  in  a bouquet.  Wayward 
sprays  of  vines,  that  are  growing  luxuriantly 
within,  escape  over  the  wall.  Wander 
anywhere  along  the  streets  of  the  Fontaine- 
bleau hamlets  and  you  will  find  numberless 
pendants  to  this  picture.  We  have  pulled 
the  cord  and,  as  the  bell  jangles  within, 
someone  admits  us  to  the  home  world. 
Piednagel  describes  the  house  as  “a 
maisonette  literally  covered  with  a thick 
growth  of  clematis,  ivy  and  jasmine  of 
Virginia.  The  little  door,  formerly  painted 
white  and  without  any  ornament,  is  never 
closed  to  him  who  knocks.  The  fa£ade  of 
this  modest  dwelling  looks  out  upon  a large 
garden,  all  filled  with  an  attractive  disorder. 
Flowers,  vegetables,  and  fruits  grow  there 
[ 55  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


without  any  thought  of  symmetry  and  seem 
to  live  and  multiply  in  perfect  intelligence. 
A great  white  rose  vine,  inquisitive  and 
artful,  seems  to  be  trying  to  scale  the 
windows,  and  a hedge  of  sweetbrier  and 
elders,  twined  about  with  convolvulus,  an- 
nounces the  beginning  of  the  garden.” 
Nature  was  the  only  member  of  the 
Millet  household  that  had  abundant  stores 
and  could  make  therefore  lavish  expenditure. 
But  the  French  peasant  knows  how  to  make 
this  guest  feel  at  home,  giving  her  space 
and  freedom,  and  Millet  had  not  merely 
the  peasant’s  love  for  foliage  and  flowers, 
but  the  artist’s  sympathy  with  everything 
that  lives  in  Nature.  Sensier  says  that  he 
loved  Nature  so  that  the  pruning  of  the  ivy 
or  the  clematis  caused  him  an  actual  pain. 
Once,  after  returning  from  a walk  in  the 
forest,  resplendent,  imperial  in  its  frost 
raiment.  Millet  attempted  to  describe  the 
scene.  “The  tiny  branchlets  of  all  kinds 
were  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  of  all,”  he 
said;  “it  seems  to  me  that  Nature  wishes 
to  make  them  take  their  revenge  and  to 
show  that  they  are  not  inferior  in  anything, 
those  poor,  humiliated  things.” 

Jules  Claretie  admits  us  to  the  interior 
[ 56  ] 


I 


' • !'  - ' ■ • i • i«-  (i  • ec  n . 

' 

to  be  tying  tQ*.  sba:-. 

•,  md  o hedge  of  sweetbr.'er 
zw  in  bout  with  convolve  In  •; 

at  • a . tort 

x La  expenditure, 
t make 


te. 

-,e  per 


ial  pain. 
* alk  n the 

it.  mperial  in  its  frost 
attempted  to  i escribe  the 
nchlets  oi  all  kind-.-. 

ne  that  Nature  wishes 

- 


MILLET 


of  the  house.  “On  the  right  side  of  the 
street,  in  going  toward  the  forest,  one  can 
see  around  a table,  lighted  by  a lamp,  a 
family  patriarchally  grouped.  The  mother 
and  the  father  are  there,  the  children  are 
working,  the  girls  sewing.  All  are  silent. 
Sometimes  the  father,  who  is  reading  to 
himself,  finishes  his  reading  aloud.  They 
listen  without  raising  their  heads.  The 
father  is  a large  and  robust  man,  young 
still,  with  gentle  expression,  calm  and 
severe  at  the  same  time,  with  black  beard, 
something  of  the  peasant  and  of  the  Quaker. 
He  is  silent  and  usually  dreaming.” 

Others  paint  equally  beautiful  home 
scenes.  It  is  evening;  Marian  and  George 
are  standing  near  him,  the  youngest  child 
is  on  his  knees  and  Millet  is  humming  a 
rustic  ballad;  or  it  is  afternoon  and  he  is 
strolling  in  the  forest,  a child  among  his 
children,  weaving  fantastic  stories.  The 
last  time  Sensier  saw  him  free  from  suffering 
and  happy,  six  months  before  his  death,  all 
went  to  the  forest,  Millet,  his  wife,  Sensier, 
the  children  and  the  grandchildren.  He 
was  spoiled  by  all  the  members  of  his  family, 
all  noises  were  hushed  near  his  studio,  even 
the  youngest  remembering  not  to  disturb 
[ 57  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Papa  at  his  work;  but,  when  discourage- 
ment came,  he  threw  the  studio  door  wide 
open  and  forgot  the  disconsolate  artist  in 
the  happy  father. 

If  you  leave  the  atelier  behind  and  turn 
toward  the  forest,  within  five  minutes  you 
will  be  in  an  open  grove  with  stately  trees. 
To  the  right,  as  far  as  a startled  pheasant 
will  fly,  on  the  face  of  a cleft  boulder, 
forming  one  of  an  enormous,  primeval  heap, 
a bronze  tablet  has  been  inserted,  containing 
heads  of  Millet  and  Rousseau.  Fifteen 
minutes  farther,  either  to  the  right  or  left, 
will  lead  to  commanding  platforms.  The 
wood  falls  away  to  the  west,  and  the  plain, 
dotted  with  villages,  is  spread  out  as  on  a 
map. 

A forest  fire  has  recently  swept  the  spaces 
just  beyond,  and  many  of  the  famous  oaks 
that  Millet  knew  and  loved  are  black  and 
grotesque  shapes  now.  Within  easy  walking 
distance,  however,  not  more  than  an  hour 
from  Barbizon,  are  the  most  beautiful 
portions  of  the  forest.  The  Bouquet  du  Roi 
extends  for  a considerable  distance,  a narrow 
wood  road,  lined  on  both  sides  with  stately 
trees  that  form  a continuous,  sloping  roof 
through  which  the  sunlight  sifts.  The 

[ 58  ] 


The  Gleaners 


\ 


BAR  h ' 


■v"*- 

^>i\T 


■ 

>u$  oaks 
Black  i(id 

apesj  isy  • kin- 

dm  »u*ver,  <>rc  an  an  \ 

f m<  l«ea  4: 

Pon  he  Be, 

■e)  ! e distent  - . tmk 

’ Wood  ■ - ... 

trees  that. 


MILLET 


forest  stretches  away,  clear  of  underbrush, 
or  with  enough  left  in  spaces  to  afford  a 
marvelous  contrast  between  the  fresh  green 
of  the  bushes,  the  dark,  grey  trunks  banded 
with  light,  and  the  forest  roof,  a fretwork 
of  green  leaves  and  blue  sky,  with  the  sun- 
light burning  through  it  all.  None  but 
the  noblest  trees  may  have  place  in  this 
park  of  the  kings.  The  walk  through  it 
in  the  late  afternoon  defies  description. 
The  consciousness  of  beauty  becomes  actual 
pain,  through  bewilderment  and  intensity. 

Millet  wrote:  “If  you  could  see  how 

beautiful  the  forest  is ! I run  there  some- 
times, at  the  close  of  the  day,  after  my  day’s 
work  is  done,  and  I return  therefrom  always 
crushed.  I do  not  know  what  those  beggars 
of  trees  say  to  each  other,  but  they  say 
something  which  we  do  not  understand, 
because  we  do  not  speak  their  language. 
Voila  tout!” 

Overtaken  by  the  close  of  day  in  the 
gorges  of  Apremont,  he  exclaimed:  “It  is 
a prehistoric  deluge,  a chaos.  It  must 
have  been  terrible,  when  it  ground  under 
its  masses  generations  of  men,  when  the 
grand  waters  had  taken  possession  of  the 
earth  and  only  the  Spirit  of  God  survived 
[ 59  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


so  many  disasters.  The  Bible  paints  it  in 
three  words : ‘Et  spiritus  Dei  superabat  super 
aquas'  (And  the  Spirit  of  God  prevailed 
over  the  waters.)  Poussin  alone,  perhaps, 
has  understood  that  end  of  the  world.” 

The  reverse  of  this  picture  of  a happy 
home  life  and  constant,  intimate  communion 
with  Nature  is  the  long,  cruel  struggle  with 
poverty,  headache  and  disappointment.* 
His  letters  show  that  the  morrow  scarce 
ever  was  secure.  He  was  often  in  fear  of 
being  turned  out  of  doors.  About  the  time 
that  his  “Angelus”  was  finished  he  wrote  to 
Sensier  : “We  have  only  wood  for  two  or 

three  days  more  ...  I am  suffering  and 
sad.”  William  Hunt  says:  “I  found  him 
(Millet)  working  in  a cellar,  three  feet 
under  ground,  his  pictures  becoming  mil- 
dewed, as  there  was  no  floor.  He  was 
desperately  poor,  but  painting  tremendous 

* Sensier’s  portrayal  of  Millet’s  struggle  with  poverty  has  been 
criticised,  even  by  Madame  Millet,  as  overdrawn.  But  Millet’s 
letters  seem  to  bear  out  at  least  the  assertion  that,  in  his  mind,  the 
situation  was  tense  almost  to  the  last,  causing  great  solicitude,  if  not 
actual  material  want.  All  the  responsibility  therefor  is  not  however 
to  be  imputed  to  lack  of  due  appreciation  of  his  work  as  artist.  The 
needs  of  a very  large  family,  with  his  generous  shielding  them 
against  the  suspicion  even  of  distress,  and  his  own  lack  of  financial 
wisdom,  his  incautiousness  when  fortune  smiled,  were  also  con- 
tributory causes.  His  eldest  son  said  they  were  the  happiest  of 
children  and  only  knew  later  on  that  their  father’s  life  had  been 
worn  out  by  his  hard  struggle. 

[ 6o  ] 


MILLET 


things.”  The  most  cruel  part  of  it  all,  in 
the  retrospect,  is  that  the  struggle  was  ended, 
his  existence  assured  and  hostile  criticism 
stilled  only  about  1870,  that  is  a few  years 
before  the  end,  when  already  the  strong 
man  was  broken  by  the  burden  bearing. 

In  December,  1874,  when  he  was  con- 
sciously entering  the  shadow  land,  he  said: 
“ I die  too  soon ; I disappear  at  the  moment 
when  I begin  to  see  clear  in  nature  and 
art.”  In  January,  1875,  a stag  was  pursued 
into  a garden  near  by  and  tortured  to  death. 
Millet  heard  all.  “ It  is  a prognostic,”  he 
said;  “that  poor  animal,  which  has  just 
died  near  me,  announces  without  doubt  that 
I too  am  going  to  die.”  January  20th, 
1875,  the  long  struggle  ended.  At  his 
death  there  was,  as  his  biographer  expresses 
it,  an  explosion  of  sympathy  and  justice. 
Whatever  might  be  the  variance  of  opinion 
with  regard  to  his  art  interpretation,  all 
recognized  that  a brave  man  had  passed. 
Single  canvases,  that  could  scarce  find  a 
buyer  at  any  price  when  first  painted,  have 
brought  since  his  death  prices  that  would 
have  assured  him  not  merely  a competence, 
but  wealth.  Thus,  “The  Gleaners,”  which 
Millet  had  sold  for  two  thousand  francs, 
[61] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


brought  three  hundred  thousand  francs ; 
and  “The  Angelus,”  which  he  had  great 
difficulty  in  disposing  of  for  twenty-five 
hundred  francs,  brought,  at  the  Secretan 
sale  in  1889,  five  hundred  and  fifty-three 
thousand  francs,  and  later,  in  1890,  eight 
hundred  thousand  francs.  The  Gavet 
collection  of  his  pastels  and  drawings  was 
sold  in  the  year  of  his  death  for  four  hundred 
and  thirty-one  thousand  francs.* 

Yet  this  story  is  a common  one,  and  the 
wish  of  his  heart,  despite  all,  had  been 
fulfilled.  For  he  wrote  in  1867:  “I  con- 
tinue to  desire  only  this,  to  live  from  my 
work  and  to  bring  up  my  children  fittingly; 
then  to  express  the  most  possible  of  my 
impressions ; also,  and  at  the  same  time, 
to  have  the  sympathies  of  those  I love  well. 
Let  all  this  be  granted  me  and  I shall  regard 
myself  as  having  the  good  portion.” 

Millet’s  nature  was  saddened  by  the 
struggle.  The  cloud  that  hung  forever 
in  his  sky  dulled  his  vision  to  the  im- 

* High  prices  were  realized  at  sales,  even  before  his  death.  In 
1873,  “ The  Angelus,”  which  was  one  of  his  favorites,  sold  for  50,000 
francs ; “ Woman  with  the  Lamp,”  38,500  ; “ Flock  of  Geese,”  25,000 ; 
and  others  for  corresponding  prices  ; but  Millet  was  already  sick  and 
had  hemorrhages.  The  May  following  his  death,  his  unfinished 
pictures,  drawings,  etc.,  sold  for  321,000  francs  and  this  gave 
Madame  Millet  a comfortable  income.  Proofs  of  etchings  he  bad 
sold  for  half  a franc  brought  from  100  to  150  francs. 

[62] 


The  cAngelus 


V 


the  Secretan 
and  fifty-three 
n i .90,  eight 

The  Gavet 

■ 

,r  hundred 


. 

: regard 


by  the 

It  .g  ’ . ■'  Kt'  Cl 

•n  to  the  im- 

' 


MILLET 


portant  part  that  light  and  gladness  have  in 
Nature,  aye  to  the  sunny  side  of  that 
peasant  life  whereof  he  had  always  been 
a part  and  whose  interpreter  he  felt  himself 
called  to  be.  Yet,  despite  money  vexations, 
despite  the  demon  headache,  which  gained 
a tighter  clutch  upon  him  every  year  and 
pitilessly  stole  away  strength  and  time  from 
creative  work,  despite  his  repeated  failures 
to  secure  recognition,  he  walked  manfully 
forward  and,  in  the  darkest  years,  wrought 
much  of  his  noblest  work. 

About  the  time  of  his  finishing  “ The 
“Gleaners”  (in  1857)  he  said:  “Let  them 
not  believe  that  they  will  force  me  to  lessen 
the  types  of  the  soil ; I would  prefer  to  say 
nothing  rather  than  to  express  myself  feebly. 
Let  them  give  me  signs  to  paint;  yards  of 
canvas  to  cover  by  day’s  labor,  as  a painter 
of  buildings ; a mason’s  work,  if  need  be ; 
but  let  them  leave  me  in  peace  to  conceive, 
according  to  my  own  fashion,  and  accom- 
plish my  task.”  When  his  “Death  and 
the  Wood-chopper”  had  been  refused  at 
the  Salon,  in  1859,  he  said:  “They  believe 
that  they  will  make  me  bend,  that  they  will 
impose  upon  me  the  art  of  the  Salons.  Ah, 
No ! Peasant  I was  born,  peasant  I shall 
[63] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


die.  I wish  to  say  that  which  I feel.  I 
have  things  to  describe  as  I have  seen  them, 
and  I will  remain  upon  my  soil  without 
retreating  a sabot’s  length,  and,  if  need  be  . . . 
I will  light  too  . . . for  honor.”*  From  the 
misunderstanding  and  non-appreciation  of 
man  he  turned  constantly  to  Nature  for 
cheer:  “Let  us  go  and  see  the  sunset;  that 
will  comfort  me  again.”  When  well  nigh 
disheartened,  in  1864,  he  wrote:  “Let  us 
pray  Him  who  gives  us  intelligence  not  to 
abandon  us  too  much,  for  we  have  need  of 
all  our  strength  to  accomplish  this  task. 
Gird  we  up  our  loins,  then,  and  march!” 
Sensier  visited  Millet  and  Jacque  fre- 
quently during  the  first  months  after  they 
came  to  Barbizon,  and  found  them  so  over- 
whelmed by  the  beauty  of  the  forest  that 
they  could  not  work.  The  charm  of  forest 
and  plain  and  the  exhilarating  consciousness 
of  being  at  last  free  to  live  his  own  life 
combined  for  a time  to  intoxicate  Millet. 
“When  I get  to  the  ground,”  he  had  said 
before  leaving  Paris,  “ I shall  be  free.” 
With  the  return  of  calm,  he  began  his 
life  work,  sketching  everything  that  spoke 
to  him  and  working  very  rapidly  in  the 


* “ The  Angelus  ” was  already  painted. 


[64] 


MILLET 


preparation  of  these  first  notes.  Later  he 
elaborated  with  care  a series  of  small  studies, 
embracing  the  entire  life  of  the  peasant, 
both  man  and  woman,  and  almost  from 
cradle  to  grave.  His  paintings,  the  final 
stage  in  this  work  of  creation,  grew  slowly. 
He  did  not  finish  more  than  three  a year. 
He  was  a severe  and  patient  self-critic.  If 
he  felt  the  expression  incomplete,  he  let  the 
canvas  hang  untouched  for  months,  even 
years.  He  did  not  paint  from  the  model. 
He  sought  the  typical  rather  than  the  indi- 
vidual, and  the  model  would  obscure  the 
type  that  was  taking  form  within. 

We  are  accustomed  to  think  of  the 
Barbizon  period  as  completely  severed  from 
the  earlier  period,  in  that  the  painting  of 
the  nude,  wherein  Millet  had  shown 
hitherto  his  chief  mastery,  was  abandoned. 
But  this  is  an  error.  He  continued,  for  ten 
years  still,  1848-58,  producing  nude  studies, 
side  by  side  with  his  peasant  interpretations. 

When  it  was  known  that  Millet  was  to 
abandon  Paris  for  Barbizon,  Diaz,  the  lover 
of  color  and  graceful  form,  protested.  “What ! 
In  the  name  of  the  great  pontiff,  do  you 
pretend  to  tell  me  that  you  have  decided  to 
live  with  brutes  and  sleep  on  weeds  and 

[65] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


thistles,  to  bury  yourself  among  peasants, 
when,  by  remaining  in  Paris  and  continuing 
your  immortal  flesh  painting,  you  are  certain 
to  be  clothed  in  silks  and  satins?”  Diaz 
expressed  a truth  with  regard  to  Millet’s 
nudes.  Their  strong  and  simple  lines  and 
their  noble,  sensuous  forms  declare  him  a 
master  in  this  field.  Millet’s  sketches  af- 
forded him  the  largest  opportunity  for  the 
free  exercise  of  that  quality  wherein  he 
excels,  the  power  to  express  form,  character, 
motion  with  few,  sure  lines.  In  his  large 
canvases  expression  does  not  always  equal 
conception.  Yet  considering  art  “not  for 
art’s  sake”  alone,  but  as  one  of  many  fields 
of  man’s  creative  power  that  may  contribute 
to  the  uplift  of  all  life,  Millet’s  peasant 
canvases  remain  his  supreme  achievement. 

We  learn,  from  Yriarte,  that  he  removed 
a portion  of  his  wall  in  order  to  have, 
almost  on  the  level  of  the  ground,  a view 
out  upon  the  country,  and  there,  seated  upon 
a heap  of  stones,  passed  hours  in  contempla- 
tion. Sensier  tells  us  that  his  occupations 
at  Barbizon  were  twofold, — in  the  morning 
he  dug  his  garden,  and  after  breakfast,  that 
is  in  the  afternoon,  he  retired  to  a low- 
roofed,  cold,  dark  hall  which  he  called  his 
[66] 


tl.'uu  --.  >r\  yoursdi  , • f 

w'i ning  in  Pa 
y ■ h painting,  4 

j j 1 k . ami  .■ » ui's , 

■v\  ‘ ...  to 

pie  :es  and 
;clan  him  a 
sketches  af- 
ity  for  the 
herein  he 
iracter, 
’arge 


rxrasant 
vement. 
he  removed 
, der  to  have, 
ound,  a view 
seated  upon 
ontt  r pi  a- 

iiion,  he  retired  to  a low- 

hall  wbicl  he  Ci. lied  his 

[66] 


tin  > 
a!  ! - ! 

rooted, 


MILLET 


studio.  If  he  remained  there  too  long,  he 
would  have  frightful  headaches  which  lasted 
perhaps  for  weeks.  To  ward  them  off,  he 
wandered  about  the  fields  and  forests  in 
sabots , an  old  straw  hat  and  an  old  sailor’s 
blouse,  and  there  his  full  vigor  returned. 

His  work  has  been  styled  “The  Poem  of 
the  Earth.”  Life  was  to  Millet  profoundly 
serious,  permeated  with  the  divine.  Every 
act  of  life  should  be  related  to  the  eternal 
order  of  things;  every  work,  well  done,  is 
so  related.  The  church  had  taught  him  to 
leave  the  afar  to  God.  The  riddle  of  the 
near,  he  read  as  discipline.  Through  work 
shalt  thou  earn  thy  bread,  and,  more,  become 
a part  of  the  regenerative  force  that  shall 
redeem  the  earth.  He  had  found  his 
place.  His  part,  as  God’s  servant,  was  to 
take  page  after  page  from  the  book  of  the 
fields  about  him  and  read  it  to  his  fellow- 
man. 

The  peasant’s  work  is  both  the  first  and 
the  most  fundamental  of  human  labors. 
Millet  was  close  to  the  soil  by  birth  and 
instinct.  He  felt  rightly  that,  with  the 
primer  of  peasant  life,  from  which  all  com- 
plexities of  higher  social  organization  are 
absent,  he  could  best  contribute  his  part  to 
[67] 


B ARBIZON  DAYS 


the  interpretation  of  life — at  least  describe 
soil  and  life-pictures,  in  their  beauty  and 
strength,  which  the  eye  saw  but  the  mind 
apprehended  not.  By  force  of  sincerity,  he 
related  what  he  himself  even  did  not  fully 
grasp.  Submissive  himself  to  earth’s  un- 
equal allotment  of  good  and  evil,  of  the 
rewards  of  labor,  he  pressed  home  with 
such  crude  verity  the  fact  of  this  inequality 
that  men  began  to  think  more  seriously 
thereof,  and  the  readjustment  of  society,  the 
realization  of  human  brotherhood,  is  being 
advanced  to-day  by  his  work,  without  his 
having  sought  or  even  dreamed  of  such  a 
result. 

The  Barbizon  peasants  were  not  un- 
fortunate above  other  French  peasants;  nay, 
more  favored,  for  they  were  comparatively 
well-to-do,  with  field  and  forest  as  store- 
houses of  food  and  heat.  Millet  recognized 
this.*  He  was  not  portraying  the  Barbizon 
peasant,  nor  even  the  peasant,  as  peasant,  but 
as  symbol  of  humanity.  The  faces  of  his 
peasants  are  not  only  not  individualized, 
but  are  usually  without  expression,  often 
wholly  in  shadow,  or  only  suggested.  That 


*He  said  repeatedly  that  he  did  not  consider  the  Barbizon 
peasants  unfortunate. 

[68] 


In  the  Fields — cBarbizon 

( From  Nature) 


- 

. 

* 

' P os,- 

.•I rich  ! He  eye  >aw  hut. 

d not.  By 'force 

f(; i , ; :;.f  CVCH  fllu  -'H’L  iftft 

pr«;j  f-d  ome  with. 

■"  .luahty 

•l  society,  the 
> 

' 

nl 

r - 

; i » f ly 
tore- 

oouses  of  food  an  - i.  Bci  r.  ^ognp'.ro 

‘h  iS.'”’  hj  WiTS  not  p . « ing  the  OaJ  j Hv-. on 
■ 

■ 


tie  did  t:  •.  "i 
[ 6$  ] 


MILLET 


is  to  us  purposeful.  Man  even  must  in  a 
measure  be  obscured,  the  God  in  his  face 
veiled,  if  he  who  looks  upon  the  canvas  is 
to  realize  that  humanity  after  all  is  only 
a part,  though  an  important  part,  of  a 
greater  whole,  only  an  instrument  in  the 
hands  of  Omnipotence. 

When  it  was  objected  to  his  portrayals  of 
peasant  life  that  pretty  maids  and  fine- 
looking  men  could  be  found  in  the  village 
as  well  as  in  the  city,  and  that  he  was 
calumniating  the  country  by  deliberately 
choosing  the  brutal  and  formless,  he  an- 
swered: “Beauty  does  not  dwell  in  the 

face ; it  radiates  forth  from  the  whole  figure 
and  appears  in  the  suitableness  of  the  action 
to  the  subject.  Your  pretty  peasants  would 
be  ill  suited  for  picking  up  wood,  for 
gleaning  in  the  fields  of  August,  for  draw- 
ing water  from  a well.  When  I paint  a 
mother,  I shall  strive  to  represent  her 
beauty  solely  in  the  look  she  gives  her 
child.  Beauty  is  expression.” 

Elsewhere  he  interprets  the  same  thought 
more  clearly : “ I would  wish  that  the 

beings  I represent  should  have  the  air  of 
being  consecrated  to  their  position  and  that 
it  should  be  impossible  to  imagine  that  the 
[69] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


idea  could  occur  to  them  of  being  other 
thing  than  that  which  they  are.”  “One 
can  say  that  all  is  beautiful  which  arrives 
in  its  time  and  at  its  place,  and  contrariwise. 
. . . The  beautiful  is  the  suitable.”  “One 
can  start  from  all  points  in  order  to  arrive  at 
the  sublime,  and  everything  is  proper  to 
express  it  if  one  has  a sufficiently  high  aim. 
Then  that  which  you  love  with  the  most 
self-forgetting  and  passion  becomes  your 
beautiful  . . . The  entire  arsenal  of  nature  has 
been  at  the  disposal  of  the  strong  men,  and 
their  genius  has  made  them  take  there,  not 
the  things  which  men  have  agreed  to  call 
the  most  beautiful,  but  those  which  suited 
the  place  best.  Has  not  everything,  at 
every  hour  and  in  a certain  place,  its  role? 
Who  would  dare  to  decide  that  a potato  is 
inferior  to  a pomegranate?” 

*“  There  are  those  who  tell  me  that  I 
deny  the  charms  of  the  country.  I find  there 
far  more  than  charms — infinite  splendor. 
I see  there,  as  they  do,  the  little  flowers 
of  which  the  Christ  said:  ‘I  assure  you 

that  Solomon  even  in  all  his  glory  was 
never  clothed  like  one  of  these.’  I see 


* This  letter  was  written  in  reply  to  the  criticisms  of  his  “ Man 
with  the  Hoe.” 

[ 70] 


The  cMati  with  the  Hoe 


• r to  them  ot-  hxsftg,  . 

. 

beaut’. ful 
n 

<i  table.’ 
n order  tsi  ;irr  i 
i ng  i proper  u>  ' 
h ier  . h air  ' 

< With  the  most 


^o"A  nfcH6  ssTt 


. 

me  .that  I 
» Hud  there 
rms  ’ ite  splendor. 

thev  n -;h  ' lirtW- 


MILLET 


very  well  the  aureoles  of  the  dandelions, 
and  the  sun,  which  displays  down  there,  far 
away  beyond  the  villages,  his  glory  in  the 
clouds.  I do  not  see  the  less  on  that 
account  the  laboring  horses  all  steaming  in 
the  plain,  then  in  a rocky  place  a back- 
broken  man,  whose  1 herns'  (pantings)  have 
been  heard  since  morning,  who  is  trying 
to  straighten  himself  upright  for  a moment 
in  order  to  breathe.  The  drama  is  en- 
veloped with  splendors.  That  expression, 
‘The  cry  of  the  earth/  is  not  my  invention; 
it  was  discovered  long  ago.  My  critics 
are  men  of  education  and  taste,  I imagine; 
but  I cannot  put  myself  in  their  place,  and, 
as  I have  never  seen  in  my  life  any  other 
thing  than  the  fields,  I try  to  say  as  well  as 
I can  that  which  I saw  and  experienced 
when  I worked  there.  Those  who  wish 
to  do  better  have  certainly  the  good  por- 
tion.” 

“See  those  things  which  are  moving 
down  there  in  a shadow.  They  are  creep- 
ing or  walking,  but  they  exist ; they  are 
the  genii  of  the  plain..  They  are  nothing 
but  poor  folk,  however.  It  is  a woman  all 
bent,  without  doubt,  who  is  bringing  back 
her  load  of  grass;  it  is  another,  who  is 

[ 7 1 ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


dragging  herself  along  exhausted  under  a 
bundle  of  fagots.  From  a distance  they 
are  superb.  They  square  their  shoulders 
under  the  burden,  the  twilight  devours 
their  forms;  it  is  beautiful,  it  is  grand  as  a 
mystery.” 

Paul  Victor  said  of  Millet’s  figures : 
“ His  painting  of  * The  Reapers  ’ is  an  idyl  of 
Homer  translated  into  patois.  His  rustics  . . . 
are  of  a superb,  brutal,  primitive  ugliness, 
resembling  the  figures  of  captives  sculptured 
on  Egyptian  tombs.  . . .You  feel  a respect  in 
the  presence  of  those  rude  peasants,  com- 
panions of  the  great  cattle,  warriors  armed 
with  scythes,  nourishers  of  men.” 

* William  Hunt  said : “ Millet’s  pictures 
have  infinity  behind  them.  His  subjects 
were  real  people,  who  had  work  to  do.  If 
he  painted  a haystack  it  suggested  life, 
animal  as  well  as  vegetable,  and  the  life  of 
man.  His  fields  were  fields  in  which  men 
and  animals  worked,  where  both  laid  down 
their  lives,  where  the  bones  of  the  animals 
were  ground  up  to  nourish  the  soil  and  the 
endless  turning  of  the  wheel  of  existence 
went  on.” 

* Millet  said  once  that  Hunt  was  the  best  and  most  intimate 
friend  he  had  ever  had. 


[>] 


. . i ig  • self  a l 

,, indie  of  fagots. 

•y.  . x\  1 They  s, 
under  the  burden, 
heir  ns;  it  is  be 
mystery 

Paul  Victor 
; I • ■ aintingot  ' 

H .-Mixer  transit 
arc  oi  a six; 


t ■;  ares : 
dyl  of 


\>6oW 


| .ilHfti 
iv.snal  as 

H 

and  animal 
their  lives, 
were,  groun 
endless  tu 
went  on.’ 


MILLET 


Many  looked  upon  Millet’s  peasants  as 
hiding  a political  protest,  breathing  the 
spirit  of  social  revolution.  That  heavy 
boor,  scarce  above  the  ox,  his  comrade  in 
toil,  painted  on  the  cold  canvas  without  any 
softening  of  lines,  and  thrust  before  the 
eyes  of  the  delicately  nurtured  and  well-clad, 
seemed  the  cry  of  the  country  against  the 
city,  of  the  toiler  against  the  man  of  ease.* 
But  nothing  was  farther  from  Millet’s  idea. 
His  spirit  knew  not  such  a thing  as  protest 
against  the  ordering  of  God  and  Nature. 
Turning  backward  over  the  centuries,  he 
heard  the  curse  spoken.  He  felt  its  shadow 
brooding  over  all  the  earth,  darkening  the 
tilled  field,  bending  the  back  of  the  laborer. 
It  was  a mystery,  but  to  a Millet  human 
toil  and  pain  are  but  the  discipline  of  divine 
justice,  love  and  wisdom.  His  canvases 
present  life  as  he  saw  it,  reveal  profound 
sympathy  with  toiling  humanity,  but  breathe 
neither  lament  nor  protestation. 

He  said  repeatedly:  “My  programme  is 
work,  for  every  man  is  vowed  to  bodily 
fatigue:  ‘Thou  shalt  live  in  the  sweat  of 

thy  brow  ’ was  written  centuries  ago,  an  im- 

* When  his  “ Sower  ” appeared  at  the  Salon  of  1850,  one  critic  went 
so  far  as  to  see  in  it  a Communist  flinging  handfuls  of  shot  against 
the  sky. 

[73] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


mutable  destiny.  . . . What  every  one  ought 
to  do  is  to  seek  progress  in  his  own  pro- 
fession, exert  himself  always  to  do  better, 
to  become  strong  and  noble  in  his  occupa- 
tion and  to  surpass  his  neighbor  by  talent 
and  conscientiousness  in  work.  That  is  for 
me  the  only  path.  . . .”  In  1867  he  wrote: 
“ I repel  with  all  my  strength  the  demo- 
cratic side,  as  it  is  understood  in  the  language 
of  the  clubs,  that  they  have  wished  to 
attribute  to  me.  My  sole  desire  has  been 
to  direct  thought  to  the  man  consecrated  to 
earning  his  livelihood  in  the  sweat  of  his 
brow.  ...  I have  never  had  the  idea  of  mak- 
ing any  plea  whatsoever,  Je  suis  paysan  pay- 
san  .”  No  fact  in  Millet’s  life  is  clearer 

than  that  he  was  always  remote  in  thought 
and  purpose  from  radicalism.* 

Millet  was  as  sensitive  as  any  of  his 
contemporaries  to  the  splendors  of  the 
earth.  “ Ah ! I would  wish,”  he  ex- 
claimed, “ I could  make  those  who  look 
at  what  I do  feel  the  terrors  and  the 
splendors  of  the  night.  One  ought  to  be 
able  to  make  the  songs,  the  silences,  the 
murmurs  of  the  air  heard.  One  must  per- 

*He  said  often  that  he  failed  to  grasp  Socialist  doctrines  and 
that  all  revolutionary  principles  were  distasteful  to  his  ideas.  He 
did  not  even  read  political  newspapers. 

[74] 


MILLET 


ceive  infinity.  Is  not  one  terrified  when 
one  thinks  of  those  constellations  of  light 
which  have  risen  and  set  for  centuries  upon 
centuries  with  a regularity  nothing  disturbs  ? 
They  give  light  to  everything,  the  joys  and 
the  sorrows  of  men,  and  when  this  world 
of  ours  shall  sink,  that  sun,  so  beneficent, 
will  be  only  a pitiless  witness  of  the  uni- 
versal desolation.”  He  says  of  winter: 
“ Oh,  sadness  of  the  fields  and  woods,  one 
would  lose  too  much  not  to  see  you ! ” 
And  elsewhere:  “Oh,  spaces  which  made 
me  dream  so  when  I was  a child,  will  it 
never  be  permitted  me  to  make  you  even 
suspected  ?”  * 

But  his  supreme  interest  was  centrea  in 
man.  “ It  is  the  human  side  which  touches 
me  most  in  art  and,  if  I could  do  that 
which  I wish,  or  at  least  attempt  it,  I would 
never  create  anything  which  was  not  the 
result  of  an  impression  received  through 
the  appearance  of  Nature,  either  in  land- 
scapes or  figures.  It  is  never  the  joyous 
side  which  presents  itself  to  me.  I do  not 
know  where  it  is,  I have  never  seen  it. 

* He  wished  every  canvas  to  suggest  infinity.  “ Every  landscape, 
however  small,  should  contain  a suggestion  of  the  possibility  of  its 
being  indefinitely  extended  on  either  side.  Every  glimpse  of  the 
horizon  should  be  felt  to  be  a segment  of  the  great  circle  that 
bounds  our  vision.” 

[75] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


The  gladdest  thing  I know  is  the  calm,  the 
silence  that  one  enjoys  so  deliciously,  either 
in  the  forest  or  in  the  tilled  fields,  whether 
tillable  or  not.  You  will  admit  to  me  that 
it  is  always  very  dreamful  there  and  the 
dream  sad,  though  delicious.  You  are 
seated  under  the  trees  experiencing  all  the 
well-being,  all  the  tranquility  one  can 
enjoy.  You  see  coming  forth  from  a little 
path  a wretched  form  laden  with  fagots. 
The  unexpected  and  always  startling  way 
in  which  that  figure  appears  to  you, 
carries  you  back  at  once  to  the  sad  con- 
dition of  humanity,  weariness.  That  gives 
always  an  expression  analogous  to  that  of 
La  Fontaine  in  his  Fable  of  the  Wood 
Cutter : 

‘ Quel  plaisir  a-t-il  eu  depuis  qu’il  est  au  monde  ? 

En  est-il  un  plus  pauvre  en  la  machine  ronde?  ’ 

In  the  places  that  are  tilled,  though  some- 
times in  certain  regions  scarce  tillable,  you 
see  figures  digging  with  spade  or  mattock. 
You  see  one  of  them  from  time  to  time 
straightening  up  his  loins,  as  we  say,  and 
wiping  his  brow  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 
‘Thou  shalt  eat  thy  bread  in  the  sweat  of 
thy  brow.’  Is  that  there  the  gay,  merry 
labor  in  which  certain  people  would  like 

[76] 


MILLET 


to  make  us  believe?  It  is  there,  notwith- 
standing, that  I find  the  true  humanity,  the 
grand  poetry.” 

The  peasant  patiently  bearing  his  burden 
from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  in  the  hot 
fields  of  summer  and  the  cold,  desolate 
woods  of  winter,  was  to  Millet  the  earth 
poem,  and  grander  far  than  royal  sunset  or 
voice  of  wind  in  the  forest.  There  was  the 
battle  of  life  out  there  in  the  fields.  There 
was  the  world’s  true  hero,  sowing,  reaping, 
gleaning.  He  was  redeeming  the  earth 
from  its  curse  and  making  atonement,  by  a 
life  of  self-renunciation,  for  the  vast,  primal 
sin;  waiting  too  patiently  the  revealing  of 
the  world  of  peace  and  joy  beyond.  The 
scintillation  of  the  stars  whispered  to  him 
thereof  as  he  watched  by  the  sheepfold  at 
night.  When  as  evening  fell  the  Angelus 
sounded  forth  from  the  bells  of  the  village 
church  tower,  he  bowed  his  head  and 
drank  in  for  a moment  a holy,  quiet  peace, 
presage  of  that  beyond. 

Such  was  the  poem  that  formed  itself  in 
Millet’s  mind;  every  action  of  the  peasant 
life,  indoors  and  outdoors,  takes  on  a re- 
ligious aspect  in  his  canvases.  It  is  hu- 
manity performing  the  old  necessary,  patri- 
[77] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


archal  services,  man  working  with  Nature, 
both  under  the  shadow,  under  the  burden, 
uncomplaining,  waiting  for  the  morning. 

There  is  without  doubt  a deep  truth  in 
all  this.  That  peasant  and  son  of  peasants 
in  coarse  blouse  and  sabots  who  roamed 
these  woods  so  many  years  was  one  of  the 
prophets.  The  forests  of  the  Bas  Breau 
and  the  gorges  of  Apremont  are  holy  places 
to-day,  because  Jean-Frangois  Millet  walked 
there.  And  yet  it  is  only  a part  of  the 
whole  truth.  Neither  Nature  nor  human 
life  rest  all  under  the  shadow.  And  he 
who,  as  Corot,  finds  and  interprets  the  sun- 
sprent  beauty  of  the  woods,  who  sees 
bright-colored  forms  dancing  in  the  glades, 
whose  heart  is  sensitive,  responsive  to  the 
joy,  the  carols  that  breathe  everywhere  in 
this  world,  is  a prophet  too. 

The  life  of  the  peasants  has  another  side. 
Sunlight  and  song  are  not  all  reserved  for 
that  morrow  of  whose  advent  the  stars 
murmur  at  night  and  the  Angelus  at  sun- 
set. Walk  through  these  village  streets. 
The  houses  stand  sociably  close  to  each 
other,  not  separated,  as  in  a hamlet  of  the 
western  world.  It  is  evening ; the  fields  of 
labor  lie  still  and  waiting  under  the  stars. 

[78] 


* 


Feeding  the  Nestlings 


(La  Becquee) 


B i\  H * > O - 
. 

deep  • r . 

h '=  ; d »n  c: 


. 

abets  wh 

tjfoe '»v  • n-. 

ears  was 

projd  ;€fie 

\ th 

- 

\j  hcc 

there*  A 

v>  hole  trui 

A 

Vs  sups  sS.  s.-A'S 

murmur 

set.  Walk  rh; n 
The  house 

other,  not  separated,  a 
western  world.  It  is  eve;  . 
labor  lie  still  and  waiting  u 


MILLET 


There  are  groups  upon  the  streets  and  the 
neighborly  talk  has  a cheery  ring.  Enter 
through  the  gate  ajar  and  sit  down  with 
the  peasant  family  in  the  open  court,  if  it 
is  midsummer,  around  their  table.  It  is 
rudely,  but  generously  spread.  These  men 
and  women  were  at  work  with  the  sunrise 
and  the  day  has  but  just  ended  for  them. 
They  are  bent,  perhaps,  the  oldest  ones 
especially,  but  there  is  a gladness,  a song  in 
their  greeting,  in  their  voices,  that  tells  not 
only  of  a kindly,  social  spirit,  but  also  that 
Nature  has  not  been  altogether  a harsh 
stepmother  to  them. 

No,  the  life  of  humanity  is  not  all 
under  the  shadow;  it  is  earnestness,  it  is 
unceasing  effort,  it  is  tireless  aspiration,  if 
a true  life;  but  song  and  sunshine  are  as 
integral  a part  of  it  as  sorrow  and  cloud. 
The  trees  rise  grey  and  tall  about  me, 
and  the  wind  is  soughing  in  their  upper 
branches,  but  the  sunlight  is  filling  all 
the  forest  world  with  sparkle  and  shimmer, 
the  birds  are  chattering  overhead;  a roe- 
buck took  my  place  yesterday  beneath 
the  beech  tree,  when  I had  deserted  it  for 
the  noon  hour. 

Each  poet-painter  sings  his  measure,  each 
[ 79] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


prophet  declares  that  part  of  the  whole 
truth  revealed  to  him.  But  the  whole 
envelops  the  parts  and  reaches  outward 
into  the  infinities.  And  we  who  listen  to 
these  partial  truths  begin  at  last  to  hear,  as 
sound  of  distant  bells,  the  disclosings  of  the 
whole  truth. 


[80] 


Corot 


Corot 


COROT 


Corot 

Take  the  train  at  the  Saint-Lazare  station 
for  Ville-d’Avray.  The  road,  after  tunnel- 
ling Paris  and  traversing  the  nearer  suburbs, 
crosses  the  Seine  and  makes  a broad  sweep, 
climbing  and  following  the  high  ground 
that  encircles  as  a ring  the  basin  through 
which  the  river  winds.  The  backward 
and  downward  look  is  inspiring.  The 
great  city  lies  just  beneath,  with  the  Eiffel 
Tower  far  overtopping  everything,  the  Arc 
de  Triomphe  and  the  turrets  of  the  Troca- 
dero  Palace  as  conspicuous  objects  in  the 
foreground.  The  sun  has  set  aflame  a 
gilded  ball  far  back  among  the  swarming 
myriads  of  structures,  the  overflow  from 
Lutecia,  the  tiny  island  city  of  Roman 
times.  To  the  left  rise  the  heights  of 
Montmartre,  surmounted  with  the  white,  un- 
finished church.  A fortressed  hill  is  near,  “ a 
watch-dog  of  Paris,”  as  Hugo  calls  it.  Then 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne  comes  between,  and 
the  Seine  winds  at  the  foot  of  the  ridge,  with 
low  trees,  trimly  uniformed,  sentinelling  its 
banks.  Groups  of  tall,  gaunt  Lombardy 
[ 83  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


poplars  stand  here  and  there  in  the  file,  like 
survivors  of  a sturdier  militia. 

There  are  villas  everywhere.  The  French- 
man, who  loves  the  country  and  yet  would 
not  be  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  out  of  near 
reach,  of  the  bright,  gay  capital,  can  pitch 
his  stone  tent  upon  the  terraces  of  this  ridge 
and  see  the  lights  of  the  city  and  its 
suburbs,  swarming  multitudinous  down  into 
the  valley,  the  flight  of  a song  away,  while 
taking  his  evening  meal  en  famille  in  his 
own  pretty,  vine-roofed  arbor. 

We  pass  Saint-Cloud,  rush  in  and  out  of 
tunnels  and  are  at  Sevres- Ville-d’Avray, 
Sevres  is  below  on  the  river,  but  Paris  and 
the  Seine  are  hidden.  Ville-d’Avray  is 
farther  back  on  the  ridge.  We  saunter 
hillward,  following  the  Chemin  Corot,  the 
channel  through  which  the  daily  tide  of 
city  travel  ebbs  and  flows.  There  are  villas 
on  both  sides.  To  the  left  green  vines 
wanton  along  high  stone  walls,  dropping 
here  and  there  a fresh  spray,  and  behind 
rise  trees  luxuriantly  foliaged. 

We  have  reached  the  Avenue  de  Ver- 
sailles, the  main  thoroughfare  of  Ville- 
d’Avray,  and  turn  to  the  left.  There  are 
gates  invitingly  open  on  the  valley  side, 

[84] 


COROT 


glimpses  of  flower  gardens  and  parks,  of  a 
downward  sweep  of  lawn  and  an  upward 
climb  beyond,  that  allure  almost  to  in- 
trusion. Then  we  are  in  a bourgeois  part  of 
the  town ; the  houses  are  in  blocks,  but 
between  them,  occasionally,  a narrow  space, 
an  open  door  for  our  eyes,  that  wander 
eagerly  down  into  that  valley  of  mystery. 

At  last  there  is  a break  in  the  line,  a 
broad  open  space,  from  which  steps  lead 
downward.  We  descend  the  steps  and  are 
at  once  on  the  shore  of  a small,  beautiful 
lake.  Water  is  gurgling  from  a marble 
fountain  just  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  The 
fountain,  surrounded  by  flower  beds  and 
overarched  by  trees,  faces  the  tiny  lake.  It 
consists  of  a large,  thick  slab  with  triangular 
cornice,  a base,  and,  in  front,  an  urn  to 
receive  the  water.  A bird  is  singing  on  a 
branch  in  the  cornice.  A heavy  laurel 
wreath,  caught  at  the  upper  corners  of  the 
slab,  falls  in  a festoon,  and  in  lieu  of  a knot 
below  there  is  a grotesque  head,  out  of 
whose  mouth  water  is  flowing.  Below  the 
cornice  is  the  inscription:  “ Veri  diligentia” 
(Search  after  truth).  A large  medallion  head 
has  been  cut  in  the  slab,  and  beneath  it  we 
read:  “Coiot,  Jean-Baptiste-Camille ; born 

[*5] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


at  Paris  July  26th,  1796;  died  at  Paris 
February  23d,  1875.” 

Opposite  the  fountain,  across  the  path  that 
descends  from  the  main  street,  a substantial 
country  house  hides  behind  densely  branched 
trees  and  a high  stone  wall.  It  was  Corot’s 
home,  and  nothing,  we  are  told,  has  been 
changed  since  his  time.  The  house  is 
massive,  of  stone  and  plaster,  a spacious, 
old-fashioned  home.  Opposite  the  house 
are  the  stables  and  outbuildings.  Vines 
run  riot  over  them.  House  and  stables  look 
at  each  other  across  an  ample  court.  Be- 
yond the  enclosure,  we  catch  glimpses  of  a 
flower,  fruit,  and  kitchen  garden.  It  is  a 
picture  of  home  comfort,  of  ease  without 
excess,  taste  without  tinsel,  with  the  quaint 
flavor  of  olden  times,  the  bright  gladness  of 
flowers,  the  wild  freedom  of  green  vines  and 
rest  beneath  wide-branching  trees. 

But  the  door  of  the  court  is  closed  upon 
us,  so  we  follow  the  path  past  the  house  end 
and  study  the  garden  over  the  high  stone 
wall  and  through  the  lattice  work  of  the 
foliage,  left  happily  incomplete  by  Nature. 
A bosky  grove — a towered  arbor — a broad 
brook  gliding  between  low-swung  branches 
— a marble  statue  hiding  in  a shady  nook — 

[ 86  ] 


COROT 


great  trees  rising  everywhere — open  spaces 
of  sunlight. 

As  we  turn  and  face  the  lake — we  are  at 
its  foot  now — we  are  amazed  at  the  revela- 
tion. There  are  Corot’s  trees ! Willows, 
more  silvery  leafed  than  any  we  have  ever 
seen  before,  stand  in  sparse  groups  upon  the 
bank,  with  tall,  dark-green  beeches  between, 
and  here  and  there  a silver  poplar ; and  on 
the  opposite  shore  tall,  gaunt  trees,  Lombardy 
poplars,  with  scarce  any  foliage,  only  a rag- 
ged ruffle  of  leaves  twined  about  their  stems. 

It  is  a day  of  moods;  while  we  linger, 
the  sky  becomes  overcast  and  gray  and  the 
silver  of  the  willow  leaves  is  fused  into  a 
mist.  The  sun  comes  out  for  a moment 
and  sets,  in  the  distance,  the  facets  of  the 
lake  sparkling.  These  are  all  familiar 
things,  so  familiar  that  we  return  and  stand 
beneath  Corot’s  windows.  The  ragged- 
foliaged  poplars  cannot  be  seen,  but  the 
silver  willows  are  looking  across,  and  the 
whole  background  is  filled  with  the  trees  of 
the  park  climbing  a gently  sloping  hill. 

We  saunter  about  the  lake,  make  the 
acquaintance  of  the  individual  trees,  look 
again  at  the  genial  face  in  the  medallion, 
and  then  sit  down  before  the  whole,  while 
[87] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


the  senses  link  in  one  all  the  separate  im- 
pressions. Then  we  return  by  the  grand 
hill-balcony  of  the  railroad. 

We  have  been  looking  forth  upon  scenes 
as  familiar  to  Corot  as  the  walls  of  his  ate- 
lier. If  the  human  element  be  eliminated, 
there  is  no  pathos  here,  only  loveliness 
everywhere,  reaching  its  highest  expression 
on  the  shores  of  the  lake  and  within  that 
jealously  guarded  court.  Yet  humanity  is 
not  only  here  in  Corot’s  world  but  holds 
a larger  place  therein  by  far  than  in  the  vil- 
lages upon  the  border  of  Millet’s  forest.  The 
great  city  that  camps  in  the  plain  has 
multitudes  working  harder,  suffering  more 
than  ever  Barbizon  peasant.  They  bear 
life’s  burden  with  equal  courage  and  patience. 
The  fields  of  labor,  that  skirt  the  forest  of 
Fontainebleau,  have  scarce  other  memories 
than  those  of  man’s  tenacious,  bloodless 
wrestlings  with  Nature.  The  teeming  plain 
that  surrounds  that  Seine  islet  has  seen 
other  steel  flashing  than  that  of  hoe  and 
ploughshare.  A bloodier  sweat  than  that 
of  toil  has  dripped  into  its  furrows.  How 
can  humanity  be  eliminated  from  a scene 
where  it  has  been  intensely,  sufferingly  active 
ever  since  the  dawn  of  history? 

[ 88  ] 


COROT 


The  city  laborer  is  lost  in  his  environ- 
ment; the  eye  perceives  from  that  hill- 
balcony  Nature  and  man’s  work,  but  not 
man.  The  graceful  lines  and  grouping  of 
park,  river  and  hills,  the  grandeur  and 
variety  of  architectural  forms,  the  beauty, 
symmetry,  and  power  of  the  city  as  a whole 
conceal  from  us  the  individual  man. 

The  peasant  stands  alone  in  his  fields,  a 
statue  of  labor,  hewn  in  the  living  flesh  and 
freed  in  space,  against  the  brown  of  the 
soil,  the  green  of  the  meadows  and  woods, 
the  blue  of  the  sky.  A still  infinity  sur- 
rounds him. 

Millet’s  nature  was  in  full  sympathy  with 
his  environment,  Corot’s  with  his;  but 
neither  understood  the  other.  Millet  said: 
“Corot’s  pictures  are  beautiful,  but  they  do 
not  reveal  anything  new.”  Corot  said  of 
Millet:  “His  painting  is  for  me  a new 

world,  I do  not  feel  at  home  there.  I 
am  too  much  attracted  to  the  old.  I see 
therein  great  knowledge,  air,  and  depth, 
but  it  frightens  me;  I love  better  my  little 
music.” 

Beside  every  one  of  Millet’s  rugged, 
Dantesque  strophes  of  toil  should  hang  one 
of  Corot’s  summer  idyls,  for  each  interprets 
[ 89  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


only  a part  of  Nature  and  life,  and  without 
the  other  is  incomplete. 

J ean-Baptiste-Camille  Corot  was  born  in 
Paris  the  26th  of  July,  1796.  His  parents 
were  milliners,  then  greatly  in  vogue,  and 
their  store  was  on  the  comer  of  the  Rue  du 
Bac  and  the  Quai  Voltaire,  facing  the  Pont 
Royal.  Here  the  young  Corot  was  born. 
Thurwanger,  his  godson,  says  of  his  relation 
to  his  parents:  “He  had  great  respect  for 
his  father,  but  a real  veneration  for  his 
mother,  whom  he  considered  the  most 
beautiful  of  women.  Unless  away  on  a 
journey,  he  never  failed,  until  his  mother’s 
death,  to  accompany  her  to  church  every 
Sunday.  He  was  proud  to  walk  with  her, 
arm  in  arm,  and  always  called  her  ‘la  belle 
femme.’  ” His  father’s  family  came  from 
the  vineyards  of  Burgundy.  Corot  discovered 
late  in  life  some  distant  kinsfolk  still  living 
there,  and,  about  i860,  went  to  visit  them. 
He  used  to  say  to  his  friends  later:  “The 
country  is  full  of  good  workers,  who  have 
the  same  name  as  myself;  they  call  out  to 
each  other  in  the  fields:  ‘He  Corot!’  You 
don’t  hear  anything  else.  I always  thought 
they  were  asking  for  me,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I was  there  as  in  my  own  family.” 
[ 9°  ] 


COROT 


Corot  was  proud  of  his  peasant  stock  and 
had  much  of  the  peasant  too  about  him, 
both  physically  and  morally.  Dumesnil 

describes  him.  “Of  good  height,  strong, 
of  a robust  constitution,  with  a healthful, 
frank,  jovial  expression;  liveliness  and  ten- 
derness in  his  glance;  a tone  of  bonhomie , 
blended  with  much  penetration ; great 
mobility  of  face  and  a ruddy  complexion, 
which  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a peasant 
from  the  vineyards  of  Burgundy.”  His 

father  sent  him  about  1806,  for  economical 
reasons,  to  the  Lycee  of  Rouen,  where  he  re- 
mained seven  years,  receiving  there  his  entire 
education.  While  in  Rouen,  he  was  under 
the  oversight  of  a correspondent  of  his 
father,  a man  of  rather  sombre  tastes,  who 
loved  solitude  and  twilight  walks.  Young 
Corot  used,  therefore,  to  wander  with  him, 
usually  toward  sunset,  in  unfrequented  paths, 
under  the  great  trees  of  the  meadows  or 

along  the  river,  and  received  from  these 

solitary  walks  a profound  impression. 

His  father  intended  to  make  of  him  a 
business  man.  After  his- return  from  Rouen, 
he  was  therefore  placed  in  a draper’s  store, 
and  remained  in  similar  employ  until  about 
1822.  The  artistic  tendencies  of  his  nature 
[ 91  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


were  already  manifest.  While  working  in 
the  Rue  de  Richelieu,  the  moment  he  was 
at  liberty  he  would  hide  himself  under  the 
counter  and  sketch.  His  employer  was  very 
indulgent,  but  told  the  father  that  the  son 
would  never  be  good  for  anything  as  a busi- 
ness man  and  he  ought  to  let  him  follow 
his  natural  tastes. 

Corot  attributed  to  this  business  training 
his  lifelong  habits  of  order  and  punctuality. 
It  was  his  custom  always  to  rise  early  and, 
from  the  moment  of  his  awakening,  fix  his 
thoughts  upon  the  picture  he  was  painting. 
He  sang,  Dumesnil  says,  while  dressing, 
then  ran  to  his  easel,  reaching  his  atelier 
promptly,  summer  and  winter,  at  three 
minutes  before  eight. 

Corot’s  father  purchased  in  1817  a 
country  house  in  the  Ville-d’Avray,  the 
one  we  have  described.*  The  family 
spent  their  summers  there.  Dumesnil  says: 
‘‘This  dwelling  was  situated  near  a pond, 
. . . and  often,  while  all  were  sleeping, 
he  (Corot)  remained  in  his  room  a part  of 
the  night,  leaning  upon  the  open  window, 
absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  sky. 


* Corot  and  his  sister  occupied  it  together  after  their  father’s 
death. 

[92] 


Vine  d'Avray 


I B 

• ty  manifest.  While' working -Mi 
e’Ricr  the  moment  he  wu 

. 

..  . ;r  it  \’jwr  that  the-  yM;! 


be  goo 

i * J - ■ VC.  ■ . 

i 


COROT 


the  water,  and  the  trees.  The  solitude 
was  complete;  no  noise  came  to  trouble 
the  dreamer  on  that  solitary  slope;  he 
passed  thus  long  hours,  his  eyes,  and 
doubtless  his  thought,  transported  into  that 
atmosphere,  charged  with  humidity,  im- 
pregnated with  a kind  of  visible  dampness 
composed  of  light  and  transparent  vapors, 
which  rose  above  the  water.  The  souvenirs 
of  his  childhood  and  the  impressions  he  had 
received  at  Rouen  were  thus  renewed  and 
implanted  themselves  more  deeply  in  his 
brain  He  attributed  to  them  a great 
influence  over  his  manner  of  seeing  and 
feeling  Nature,  and  over  all  his  career  as 
artist.  From  the  moment  that  he  took 
the  brush,  he  found  again,  without  diffi- 
culty, and  as  if  unconsciously,  the  tones 
proper  to  express  that  which  had  remained 
in  his  imagination — that  gray  mist,  light  and 
ambient,  wherewith  the  air  is  saturated, 
which  half  veils  the  horizons  ...  in  a 
majority  of  his  paintings.” 

These  are  the  years,  in  the  growth  of  the 
human  plant,  when  the  senses  of  an  artisti- 
cally endowed  nature  open  to  the  beautiful, 
as  the  petals  of  the  convolvulus  to  the  sun- 
light, and  the  whole  course  of  a life  may  be 
[ 93  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


determined  by  the  slope  of  the  hills,  the 
sweep  of  the  meadows,  the  aspects  of  en- 
vironing nature.  Corot’s  father  had  there- 
fore chosen  without  due  forethought  in 
admitting  Camille  to  this  school  of  the 
Ville-d’Avray,  where  a sympathetic  teacher 
was  ever  quickening  his  artistic  senses  and,  in 
equal  measure,  deepening  his  aversion  to 
commercial  life. 

He  made,  while  a draper’s  clerk,  the 
acquaintance  of  Michallon,  the  first  recipient 
of  the  Grand  Prix  de  Rome,  a young  man 
of  his  own  age,  and  already  highly  esteemed. 
Michallon  doubtless  encouraged  him  in  his 
ambitions.  The  yearning  to  express  what 
he  saw  and  felt  became  at  last  too  strong 
for  him  to  continue  passively  longer  in  the 
career  his  father  had  chosen  for  him.  So 
one  day  he  went  to  his  father  and  begged 
him  for  permission  to  give  up  business, 
follow  his  natural  inclination,  and  take  the 
brush,  “for  that  was  what  he  most  desired 
in  the  world.” 

Corot  was  then  about  twenty-six,  yet  his 
relation  to  his  parents  remained  through  life 
that  of  a child.  Charles  Blanc  says  that 
they  always  treated  him  as  a little  boy,  and 
until  after  fifty  he  was  as  submissive  to  them 

[94] 


COROT 


as  a child.  The  father,  a shrewd  business 
man,  accustomed  to  command,  was  not 
pleased  at  this  unwise  choice;  yet  he  did 
not,  as  he  might  have  done,  coldly  thwart 
Camille’s  ambition.  Probably  the  advice  of 
Camille’s  employer  and  his  own  experience 
convinced  him  that  his  son  would  make  a 
failure  in  business,  unless  he  renounced  now, 
for  good  and  all,  his  art  whims.  He  there- 
fore resolved  to  give  him  a choice;  to  hold 
out  before  him  a stimulating  prospect,  should 
he  continue  in  business;  but  allow  him  if 
he  wished,  on  meagre  conditions,  to  follow 
his  inclinations.  He  said:  “The  dowries 

of  your  sisters  have  been  ready  for  them,  and 
I expected  very  soon  to  provide  you  also 
with  a good  establishment;  for  you  will 
speedily  be  of  an  age  to  be  the  head  of  a 
business  house;  but,  since  you  have  refused 
to  continue  in  your  trade,  in  order  to 
become  a painter,  I forewarn  you  that, 
while  I live,  you  will  have  no  capital  at 
your  disposal.  I will  give  you  an  allowance 
of  fifteen  hundred  livres  (francs).  Never 
count  upon  anything  else,  and  see  if  you 
can  get  along  with  that.”*  Camille,  deeply 

* That  sum  represented  the  interest  of  the  dowry  of  one  of  his 
sisters,  which  had  reverted  to  the  family,  she  having  died  without 
children. 


[95] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


moved,  embraced  his  father  saying,  “ I 
thank  you;  it  is  all  that  I need,  and  you 
make  me  very  happy.”*  Forthwith  delay- 
ing only  long  enough  to  provide  himself 
with  the  tools  of  his  new  trade,  he  went 
down  upon  the  shore  of  the  Seine,  close  to 
his  father’s  house  and,  “ looking  toward  the 
Cite,  full  of  joy,  began  to  paint.”j* 

This  was  Corot’s  first  study,  and  he  used 
to  show  it  to  all  who  visited  his  atelier . 
He  said  to  Dumesnil,  Fra^ais,  Troyon,  and 
Busson  in,  1858:  “While  I was  doing  that, 
thirty-five  years  ago,  the  young  girls  who 
worked  at  my  mother’s  were  curious  to  see 
Monsieur  Camille  at  his  new  employment, 
and  ran  away  from  the  store  to  come  and 
look  at  him.  One  of  them,  whom  we  will 
call  Mademoiselle  Rose,  came  oftener  than 
her  companions;  she  is  still  living  and 
unmarried,  and  visits  me  from  time  to 
time.  She  was  here  only  last  week. 
Oh,  my  friends,  what  a change,  and  what 
reflections  it  calls  forth ! My  painting  has 
not  budged,  it  is  as  young  as  ever,  it  marks 
the  hour  and  time  of  day  when  I made 

*We  have  followed  here  DumesniPs  account.  Charles  Blanc 
says  his  father  offered  to  put  one  hundred  thousand  francs  in  his 
hands,  if  he  would  continue  in  business.  Thurwanger  says  the 
annuity  was  only  1,200  francs. 

t The  Seine  island,  site  of  the  original  city. 

[96] 


COROT 


it;  but  Mademoiselle  Rose  and  I,  where 
are  we?” 

The  contrast  between  Millet’s  abandon- 
ment of  the  farm  and  Corot’s  release  from 
the  counter  is  a significant  one.  Millet’s 
father  and  grandmother  saw,  in  the  lad’s 
talent,  a sign  of  the  divine  will,  and  sent  him 
forth,  as  one  called  to  a higher,  a holy 
work.  Corot’s  father  had  no  confidence  in 
his  son’s  artistic  ability.  The  life  of  a 
painter,  at  least  so  far  as  Camille  was 
concerned,  seemea  to  him  a half-idling, 
a toying  with  life,  and  his  attitude  thence- 
forth toward  his  son  was  one  of  tolerance  of 
a caprice,  rather  than  encouragement  of  a 
talent.*  Millet  married,  and  his  career  was 
from  beginning  to  end  a struggle,  a con- 
secrated one,  from  the  moment  of  his  clear 
recognition  of  his  special  field.  Corot 
escaped  from  the  counter  to  the  land  of  his 
dreams.  He  never  married;  whether  the 
desire  thereof  came  to  him  or  not,  we  are 
not  told — Mademoiselle  Rose  awakens  a 
suspicion — but,  if  it  did,  he  turned  his  face 

*Even  so  late  as  1846,  when  Corot  had  been  decorated  with  the 
Legion  of  Honor,  his  father  said  to  Franjais,  who  was  perhaps  Corot’s 
favorite  pupil:  “Tell  me,  you  who  are  a connoisseur  in  painting, 
whether  Camille  has  really  merit?”  Frangais  assured  him  that  his 
son  was  “ stronger  than  all  the  rest,”  but  found  it  difficult  to  con- 
vince him. 

[97] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


resolutely  away.  He  gave  his  life  entirely 
to  art;  his  father’s  allowances  satisfied  his 
modest  needs,  and  so  he  lived  on,  in- 
terpreting Nature  as  she  appeared  to  him, 
diffusing  about  him  a constant  sunshine, 
with  a song  always  in  his  heart  and  upon 
his  lips,  until,  dreaming  of  landscapes  and 
skies  all  rose,  he  fell  asleep. 

When  some  one  remarked  that  painting 
was  a folly,  he  replied : “ It  may  be  so,  but 
I defy  anybody  to  find  on  my  face  the 
traces  of  sorrow,  of  ambition  or  remorse, 
which  mar  the  faces  of  so  many  unhappy 
people.  This  is  why  we  should  not  only 
pardon  that  folly  but  seek  it.  We  should 
love  art,  which  gives  calm,  moral  content- 
ment, and  even  health  to  one  who  can 
bring  his  life  into  harmony  with  it.” 

He  said  once  to  a friend:  “I  pray  every 
day  the  bon  Dieu  to  make  me  a child,  that 
I may  see  her  (Nature)  as  she  is,  and  to 
make  her,  as  a child,  without  reserve.” 
Such  prayers  the  bon  Dieu  always  answers, 
for  the  desire  is  proof  that  the  heart  is  open 
to  receive  the  simple  messages  of  the  outer 
world,  though  not  indeed  its  depths  and 
heights;  for  these  are  only  disclosed  to  him 
who  has  struggled  and  suffered.  One  may 
[98] 


C O K O T 


indeed  suffer  and  yet  remain  a child.  A 
mere  financial  independence,  such  as  Corot 
enjoyed,  is  not  a shield  against  the  arrows 
of  fate.  But,  so  far  as  we  can  observe, 
Corot’s  life  moved  forward,  from  the  time 
of  his  release  from  business,  as  evenly  and 
happily  as  it  is  reasonably  possible  for  human 
life  to  do.  His  vigorous  health  and  glad 
nature,  more  receptive  of  sunlight  than  of 
shadow,  counted  for  much  therein.  The 
failure  to  secure  recognition  had  not  the 
meaning  for  him  that  it  had  for  Millet  and 
Rousseau,  harassed  by  creditors  and  de- 
pendent upon  the  fruits  of  their  labors.  It 
was  therefore  without  that  drop  of  supreme 
bitterness.  Late  in  life,  when  the  battle 
was  over,  he  said,  in  reference  to  a sugges- 
tion made  by  Barye  that  he  should  offer 
himself  as  candidate  to  the  Institute:  “No,” 
pointing  to  his  easel,  “all  my  happiness  is 
there.  I have  followed  my  path  without 
flinching,  without  changing,  and  for  a long 
time  without  success;  it  has  come  late;  it  is 
a compensation  for  youth  flown  away,  and  I 
am  the  happiest  man  in  the  world.” 

His  friend  Michallon  became  for  a brief 
time  his  teacher.  His  first  drawing  from 
nature  was  made  at  Arcueil  under  MichalJon’s 
[ 99  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


eye.*  Dumesnil  sums  up  the  precepts  of 
his  first  master:  “To  come  face  to  face 

with  Nature,  to  strive  to  render  her  with 
exactness,  to  paint  what  one  sees  and  to 
translate  the  impressions  received,”  and  this 
advice,  Dumesnil  adds,  was  about  that  which 
Corot  gave  in  turn  to  his  pupils.  Though 
Corot  did  not  remain  long  under  Michal- 
lon’s  direction,  the  precepts  of  his  first  master 
had  undoubtedly  an  abiding  influence  with 
him.  They  responded  to  the  leadings  of 
his  own  nature.  Michallon  died  in  1822. 
His  death  must  have  occurred  therefore  not 
long  after  Corot’s  release  from  business. 

Rene  Menard  says  of  Michallon  : “At  a 
time  when  only  conventional  landscape  was 
known,  with  the  inevitable  temple  in  the 
background,  and  the  foreground  with  large 
leaves  to  give  it  distance,  Michallon  was 
regarded  as  a seeker  after  realism,  because 
his  subjects  were  chosen  from  Nature, 
instead  of  being  composed  in  the  imagina- 
tion.” 

Victor  Bertin,  the  acknowledged  master 
of  landscape,  was  Corot’s  second  teacher. 
He  had  been  also  the  teacher  of  Michallon. 

* Corot  made  one  of  his  first  studies  in  the  Forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau, October  22d,  1822. 


[ 100  ] 


COROT 


Dumesnil  says  that  “he  was  a pure  classi- 
cist, putting  everything  in  order,  and  whose 
paintings  recall,  if  one  may  so  express  it, 
the  coldness  of  the  accessories  of  tragedy.” 
Bertin  was  not  the  master  to  appreciate  and 
foster  the  artistic  qualities  of  Corot’s  na- 
ture, but  he  was  a conscientious  worker 
and  a good  draughtsman,  and  his  instruction 
was  helpful  in  the  direction  of  precision. 

Jean  Rousseau  describes  the  ruling  art 
ideals  at  the  time  when  Corot  began  his 
apprenticeship.  There  was  nothing  but  the 
noble  style;  “no  rivers,  but  torrents;  no 
houses,  but  Greek  temples;  no  peasants, 
but  shepherds  and  nymphs ; and  no  familiar 
trees  even,  no  simple  elms  and  commonplace 
birches,  but  cedars  and  palms.” 

After  two  winters  spent  in  Bertin’s  studio, 
Corot  went  to  Rome  in  1825.  A number 
of  young  French  painters  were  there  at  the 
time.  Pierre  Guerin  was  director  of  the 
Academy.  Corot’s  social  qualities  made  at 
first  a much  greater  impression  than  his 
ability  as  an  artist.  At  the  evening  gather- 
ings, at  the  Caffe  della  Lepre  or  Caffe  Greco, 
he  used  to  sing  with  great  gusto  a ballad 
then  very  popular,  and  which  remained 
one  of  his  favorites, 

[ IOI  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


“Je  sais  attacher  les  rubans, 

Je  sais  comment  poussent  les  roses. 

Des  oiseaux,  je  sais  tons  les  chants, 

Mais  je  sens  palpiter  mon  coeur.” 

As  an  artist  Corot  was  timid,  and  the  in- 
difference of  his  comrades  went  at  times 
even  to  the  point  of  ridicule.  His  first 
attempts  at  independent  drawing  discouraged 
him,  and  he  felt  that  the  time  passed  under 
Victor  Bertin’s  instruction  had  been  wasted. 
But  he  persevered  and  learned  to  sketch 
rapidly  the  groups  he  met  on  the  street, 
seizing  the  character  and  the  details  too,  if 
those  who  were  unconsciously  posing  lingered 
long  enough. 

Corot,  as  Millet,  was  a more  apt  pupil  in 
the  large  studio  where  Nature  teaches  than 
in  the  routine  of  the  atelier.  He  loved  to 
wander  alone  about  Rome.* 

Corot  is  indeed  the  child  of  the  Ville- 
d’Avray  and  of  Rome,  the  pupil  of  Nature 
and  of  Classic  Art.  He  unites  harmoniously 
the  academic  traditions  taught  by  Michallon, 
Bertin  and  the  rest,  with  his  own  impressions 
received  immediately  from  Nature. 

* There  was  no  other  city  in  Europe,  even  as  late  as  187  5,  save 
Athens  perhaps,  where  one  could  learn  as  much  of  art  and  history 
by  simply  wandering  to  and  fro.  Rome  was  still  ancient  Rome, 
now  it  is  an  emerging  modern  European  capital,  and  the  crum- 
bling gray  of  the  old  contrasts  harshly  with  the  pretentiousness  of 
the  new. 

[ 102  1 


Souvenir  of  Castelgandolfo 


- 

ft 

c i’  . v ; ■ • 1 ■ Hants, 

Mats  • .)«=  sens  - palpiter  >i-or-  coeur.’’  : f-  ••  % - . 

an  artist  Corot  was  timid*,  and  wBbj 
difference.  s»f  his  comrades  .went  at,  tunffl 
q en  to  be  point"  o ridicule.  His  fit 
at  mdt penden  . dra wing  discou  agen 
'dim,  and  he  felt  that  the  time  passed  under 
Victor  Be 1 jC  uv  • n had  been  wasted. 

■ 

d\\ohm»^te4£>  V •vstvMyxjc?. 


• me  Viile 

’ 

;L e icade  tc  traditions  taught  by  Mit  ballon, 
•;ertin  and  merest,  with  his  own  impression:' 
•eceiyed  ' edutcly  from  Nature. 


r _'i ' ; i ;~yi  \ . ) *>iher  • i in  .vurcpp,  c- as  ,at-  as  * 

..  it  is.  a • ojera  Burr  • • .»  ■ t “ 

tray'o  tU«  • F-  h«  hi;  - »* 


. 


COROT 


For  those  lithe,  shapely  figures  that  lead 
the  dance  in  his  summer  landscapes  are  the 
wood  and  river  goddesses  of  ancient  art, 
most  charmingly  bereft  of  all  heroic  or 
superhuman  qualities,  and  become  but  the 
impersonations  of  the  hour  and  the  mood  of 
Nature  in  color,  in  form,  in  posture,  in 
everything. 

A comrade,  Aligny,  found  him  sitting  one 
day  on  the  Palatine  hill  and  sketching  the 
Coliseum.  Aligny  was  regarded  as  an 
authority  in  landscape.  He  was  struck  by 
the  precision  of  the  sketch  and,  examining 
it  closely,  discovered  therein  qualities  of  the 
highest  order,  mastery  and  na’iveti  com- 
bined, and  congratulated  Corot.  Corot  at 
first  took  this  praise  for  pleasantry,  but 
Aligny  insisted  and  told  their  comrades 
that  evening  that  Corot  could  well  become 
the  master  of  them  all.  That  gave  Corot 
a standing  among  his  fellows  and  he  was 
thenceforth  looked  upon  as  an  artist  with  a 
future.  Corot  always  attributed  to  Aligny 
the  success  of  his  life.  That  spontaneous 
recognition  of  his  talent  and  hearty  en- 
couragement, coming  from  a man  whose 
judgment  all  respected,  opened  to  him 
again  the  golden  gate.  He  made  sketches 
[ io3  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


from  nature  at  Aligny’s  advice,  striving  to 
render  everything  he  saw  with  truth  and 
precision,  leaving  no  place  to  the  imagina- 
tion. 

Charles  Blanc  says  that  Aligny  exercised 
for  fifteen  years  and  more  a powerful  in- 
fluence over  Corot.  During  this  period 
Corot  “sought  style  by  the  drawing,  by  grand 
lines  resolutely  marked,  an  intentional  so- 
briety in  details.  . . . That  however  which 
was  rude,  solemn  and  somewhat  emphatic  in 
the  drawings  of  Aligny  and  in  his  virile, 
austere  paintings  . . . appeared  in  Corot  less 
abrupt,  more  penetrated  with  the  warmth 
of  life.  . . . Corot  had  something  more 
than  Aligny  and  Victor  Bertin,  and  that 
was  love.  Everything  depicted  itself  in 
harmony  in  his  awakened  soul.” 

Corot  would  never  part  with  that  study 
of  the  Coliseum,  and  toward  Aligny  he 
cherished  always  a reverential  feeling.  A 
friend  whom  Corot  took  to  Aligny’s  studio, 
after  Corot  himself  had  become  famous,  was 
surprised  to  see  him  timid  and  as  it  were 
like  a little  boy  in  the  presence  of  him  whom 
he  regarded  as  his  true  master. 

Dumesnil  describes  the  closing  scene  of 
that  friendship.  It  was  eight  in  the  morning 

[ 104] 


COROT 


of  a winter’s  day,  the  snow  was  falling  and 
melting  as  soon  as  it  touched  the  earth,  the 
sky  wan  and  sad.  Aligny’s  funeral  was 
being  celebrated  at  Montparnasse.  There 
were  few  present.  Corot,  then  seventy-eight 
years  old,  stood  shivering  beside  the  grave. 
Madame  Aligny  came  to  him  and  begged 
him  to  go  away,  but  he  refused.  Somewhat 
later  that  same  day,  as  he  was  leaving  his 
atelier , he  related  his  experiences  to  Dumesnil. 
Just  then  a ray  pierced  the  mist.  “Ah,” 
exclaimed  Corot,  “ it’s  better  weather  now 
than  it  was  this  morning  in  the  cemetery, 
but  it  was  for  me  a duty,  a sacred  debt.” 

Edward  Bertin,  another  of  the  French 
artists  then  at  Rome,  Aligny  and  Corot 
used  often  to  wander  about  the  Campagna 
together  seeking  motifs , and  Corot  said: 
“it  was  Edward  who  always  had  the  instinct 
to  choose  the  right  spot.”  He  felt  he  owed 
much  to  his  counsels.  Corot’s  first  manner 
of  painting,  “dry  rather  than  vaporous,  has 
its  source  in  the  studies  that  he  made  at 
this  time.” 

On  Corot’s  return  to  France  in  1827,* 
he  sent  two  pictures  to  the  Salon,  and  from 
that  time  forward  never  missed  an  exposition. 


* He  revisited  Italy  twice,  in  1833  and  1843. 

[ io5  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Yet  it  was  long  before  he  secured  recogni- 
tion His  pictures  were  always  badly  hung, 
unnoticed  by  the  critics,  and  returned  unsold 
to  him.*  But  he  had,  in  compensation, 
from  an  early  period  a small  band  of  ad- 
mirers and  champions,  among  others  Diaz, 
and  many  warm  friends,  and  was  spared  the 
bread  struggle. 

Charles  Blanc  says  that  “ his  work  at 
first  was  idyllic  or  historic  landscape,  and 
did  not  differ  enough  from  the  work  of  his 
masters  and  the  painters  of  the  day  to  attract 
attention.  Furthermore,  the  true  sentiment 
of  rustic  nature  was  not  yet  awakened  in  the 
French  school.  When,  a few  years  later, 
Cabat,  Jules  Dupre  and  Rousseau  appeared, 
“the  veil  of  mist  and  poetry  which  the  ami- 
able Corot  had  thrown  over  Nature  was  rent 
by  that  brilliant  young  group.  The  paintings 
of  Corot  seemed  pale,  gray,  and,  in  their 
delicacy,  they  could  attract  only  the  deli- 
cate.” These  however  were  touched,  and 
recognized  therein  the  soul  of  a poet.  We 
have  seen  but  few  of  his  earlier  canvases. 
“The  Coliseum”  and  “ The  Forum  ” in  the 

* He  used  to  return  sometimes  from  an  exposition  with  tears  in 
his  eyes  and  look  at  the  studies  on  the  walls  of  his  atelier  saying : 
“At  least  they  will  not  be  able  to  take  that  away  from  me,  with  all 
their  intrigues.” 


[ 106  ] 


Louvre, 
that  ro 
Corot  i 
disci 
there  * 


clack  la  .% 


can  pier- 

CT  U 

no 

...  * V 

t.»l  inhc,ht  are  f 
The  wood 


that  the  eye 
tes  to  0-.  - short 

dista  n t the  sun 

' 


_ 

and  tilt 
hours  and 
elusive"  ;■ 


Un  Paysage 


COROT 


Louvre,  dating  from  this  first  period,  lack 
that  romance  and  that  silver  mist  wherein 
Corot  found  his  natural  expression,  and  they 
disclose  no  other  quality  which  separates 
them  from  the  throng. 

Corot’s  “ Paysage  ” in  the  Louvre  seems 
the  natural  and  complete  expression  of  the 
life  and  spirit  of  the  artist.  A lake  rests  in 
the  silver  haze  of  a summer  morning.  We 
have  often  seen  that  gauze,  woven  of 
minutest  pearls,  suspended  over  an  Adiron- 
dack lake.  It  is  so  tenuous  that  the  eye 
can  pierce  through  its  meshes  to  the  shore 
far  away,  and  there,  in  the  distance,  the  sun 
has  rent  it,  and  on  the  glassy  surface  drops 
of  sunlight  are  falling  and  bursting. 

The  wooded  shores  are  half  shrouded  in 
mystery,  half  revealed.  There  is  a life 
stirring  at  this  hour.  Were  the  eye  not  so 
dull,  it  would  perceive  graceful  forms  moving 
rhythmically  along  the  shore  and  among 
the  trees,  or  disporting  themselves  in  the 
lake.  The  ancients  were  not  at  fault  when 
they  peopled  lake  and  forest  with  nymphs 
and  dryads.  For  these  were  elusive  things, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  woods  and  lakes,  of 
hours  and  moods  such  as  this,  has  the  same 
elusive  quality.  But  we  turn  back  from 
[ I07  3 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Nature  to  the  “Paysage,”  or  better,  to  its 
companion  canvas,  “Le  Matin.”  There 
they  are;  Corot  has  seen  them  and  painted 
them  to  the  life — graceful,  shapely,  lithe, 
not  mortal  nor  sensuous,  as  in  the  nude  can- 
vases of  the  modern  school ; not  divine,  nor 
heroic ; of  the  woodland  these ; and  how 
wonderfully  the  colors  of  their  drapery  blend 
with  the  tones  of  the  landscape. 

There  is  poetry  everywhere,  but  it  can- 
not speak  the  language  of  man  until  it  has 
found  an  interpreter.  And  those  beings, 
not  of  human,  nor  yet  of  heroic,  divine 
kinship  that  Corot  perceived  and  painted, 
are  just  and  true  impersonations  of  sentiments 
that  exist  in  Nature,  and  without  them  his 
landscapes  would  lack  their  final  perfection. 

Corot  recognized  that  he  was  not  painting 
grand  things.*  “When  I find  myself  in  the 
fields,”  he  said  once  to  Silvestre,  “ I fly  into 
a rage  with  my  pictures.”  When  standing 
before  a painting  of  Delacroix,  he  exclaimed : 
“He  is  an  eagle;  I am  only  a skylark;  I 
send  forth  little  songs  in  my  gray  clouds.” 
His  remark  about  Millet’s  work,  as  com- 
pared with  his  own,  voices  the  same 
thought. 

*He  said  of  his  painting:  “I  know  well  that  I do  not  go  far  in  it; 
I cannot;  but  I am  persuaded  that  I am  on  the  right  path.” 

[ 108  ] 


Le  Matin — Trance  of  the  Nymphs 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


’Nature  to  the  “Paysage,”  or  better,  to  its 
companion  canvas,  “Le  Matin.”  There 
they  are;  Corot  has  seen  them  and  painted 
them  to  the  life — graceful,  shapely,  lithe, 
not  mortal  nor  sensuous,  as  in  the  nude  can- 
vases of  the  modern  school;  not  divine,  nor 
heroic ; of  the  woodland  these ; and  how 
wonderfully  the  colors  of  their  drapery  blend 
with  the  tones  of  the  landscape. 

There  is  poetr  everywhere,  but  it  can- 
not n *ak  1 til  it  has 

reings, 
heroic,  divine 

ifpnv/A  "\o  *A 


landsca 


Corot  unting 

grand  o u . • ; self  in  the 

fields,”  he  said  once  to  Silvestre,  “I  fly  into 
a rage  with  my  pictures.”  When  standing 
before  a painting  of  Delacroix,  he  exclaimed  : 
“He  is  an  eagle;  I am  only  a skylark;  1 
send  forth  little  songs  in  my  gray  clouds/ 
His  remark  about  Millet’s  work,  as  c vim- 
pared  with  his  own,  voices  the  same 
thought. 

' said  of  his  painting:  “I  know  well  that  l ‘ « ••  fclw  u 
.tnv.ot;  but  I am  persuaded  that  I am  o:«  .fc'  **■ 

[ io8  1 


COROT 


Dumesnii  finds  in  his  religious  paintings, 
the  best  of  which  are  in  Saint-Nicolas-du 
Chardonnet  at  Paris,  a capacity  for  the 
grand  art  as  represented  by  Titian,  Poussin, 
Rembrandt  and  their  fellows.  But  Corot 
would  have  deprecated  such  a comparison, 
and  his  own  more  modest  judgment  as  to  his 
distinctive  place  in  art  is  the  one  time  will 
approve. 

We  can  spend  a day  with  Corot  by  reading 
his  letter  to  Monsieur  Graham. 

“Look  you,  it  is  charming,  the  day  of 
a landscapist.  He  rises  early,  at  three  in 
the  morning,  before  the  sun;  he  goes  and 
seats  himself  at  the  foot  of  a tree.  He 
watches  and  waits.  There  is  not  much  to 
be  seen  at  first.  Nature  resembles  a whitish 
canvas  upon  which  the  profiles  of  certain 
masses  are  vaguely  sketched ; all  is  fragrant, 
all  thrills  under  the  freshening  breath  of  the 
dawn. 

“Bing!  the  sun  is  becoming  clear — the 
sun  has  not  yet  rent  the  gauze  behind 
which  hide  the  meadow,  the  valley,  the 
hills  of  the  horizon — The  vapors  of  night 
still  creep  like  silvery  tufts  over  the  cold, 
green  grass.  Bing ! Bing ! a first  ray  of 
the  sun  ! a second  ray  of  the  sun ! The 
[ 1 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


tiny  flowerets  seem  to  awake  joyous;  each 
one  has  its  drop  of  .trembling  dew ; the 
leaves,  sensitive  to  the  cold,  move  to  and 
fro  in  the  morning  air — Under  the  foliage 
the  birds  sing  unseen — It  seems  as  if  it 
were  the  flowers  saying  their  prayers.  The 
loves,  on  wings  of  butterflies,  descend  upon 
the  meadow  and  make  the  tall  grasses  sway 
to  and  fro.  One  sees  nothing — everything 
is  there — the  landscape  is  all  there  behind 
the  transparent  gauze  of  the  mist,  which 
rises,  rises,  rises,  inhaled  by  the  sun,  and 
discloses  in  rising  the  river  scaled  with 
silver,  the  meadows,  the  trees,  the  cottages, 
the  vanishing  distance.  One  distinguishes 
at  last  that  which  one  divined  at  first. 

“Bam!  the  sun  has  risen.  Bam!  the 
peasant  passes  at  the  end  of  the  field  with 
his  cart  drawn  by  two  oxen.  Ding!  ding! 
it’s  the  bell  of  the  ram  that  leads  the  flock. 
Bam  ! bam ! all  bursts — all  glitters — all  is 
in  full  light,  blond  and  caressing  as  yet. 
The  distances,  simple  in  contour  and 
harmonious  in  tone,  lose  themselves  in  the 
infinity  of  the  sky  across  an  air  misty  and 
touched  with  azure.  The  flowers  uplift 
their  heads;  the  birds  flit  hither,  thither. 
A countryman,  mounted  upon  a white  horse, 
[ ”°] 


COROT 


disappears  in  the  hollow  path;  the  little 
rounded  willows  seem  to  be  spreading 
themselves  like  peacocks  upon  the  bank  of 
the  river.  It  is  adorable,  and  I paint — and 
I paint — Oh ! the  beautiful  fawn-colored 
cow,  sunk  up  to  her  dewlap  in  the  damp 
grass ; I am  going  to  paint  her — crac ! 
there  she  is!  Famous,  famous!  Dieu,  how 
well  I’ve  hit  her  off!  Let’s  see  what  that 
peasant  will  say  who  is  watching  me  paint 
and  does  not  dare  to  approach.  4 Ho,  Simon ! ’ 
Good ; here  is  Simon  approaching  and 
looking.  ‘Well,  Simon,  what  do  you  think 
of  that?’  ‘Oh,  well,  Monsieur,  it’s  very 
beautiful,  of  course  {Oh  dom , M’sieu,  cest 
bien  biau,  allez !Y  ‘And  you  see  well  what  I 
meant  to  paint  ?’  ‘ Why,  of  course,  I see 

what  it  is ; it’s  a large  yellow  rock  you’ve 
put  there.’ 

“Boom!  boom!  noon!  the  sun  aflame 
burns  the  earth.  Boom  ! everything  grows 
heavy,  everything  becomes  serious — the 
flowers  hang  their  heads,  the  birds  are  silent, 
the  sounds  of  the  village  come  to  us ; they 
are  the  heavy  labors,  the  smith  whose 
hammer  resounds  upon  the  anvil.  Boom ! 
let  us  return  home — One  sees  everything; 
there  is  nothing  there  longer.  Let  us  go 

C XII  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


and  breakfast  at  the  farm,  a good  slice  of 
home-made  bread,  with  butter  freshly 
churned  — eggs,  cream,  ham  - — Boom  ! 

W ork,  my  friends,  if  you  will ; I rest,  I 
take  my  noon  nap — and  I dream  a morning 
landscape— I dream  my  picture — by  and 
by  I will  paint  my  dream. 

“ Bam ! Bam ! The  sun  sinks  towards 
the  horizon — It  is  time  to  return  to 
work.  Bam  ! the  sun  gives  a blow  of  tam- 
tam. Bam!  it  sets  amidst  an  explosion  of 
yellow,  of  orange,  of  fire  red,  of  cherry,  of 
purple- — Ah,  it’s  pretentious  and  vulgar;  I 
don’t  like  that — Wait;  let’s  sit  down  there 
at  the  foot  of  the  poplar — close  to  that 
pond,  as  smooth  as  a mirror. 

“Nature  has  a tired  mien — the  flowerets 
seem  to  revive  a little — poor  flowerets,  they 
are  not  like  the  rest  of  us  men,  who  find 
fault  with  everything.  They  have  the  sun 
on  the  left — they  are  patient.  4 Good,’ 
they  say  to  themselves,  ‘ presently  we’ll 
have  it  on  the  right  ’ — They  are  thirsty — 
they  wait.  They  know  that  the  sylphs  of 
the  evening  are  going  to  sprinkle  them  with 
vapor  from  their  invisible  watering  pots ; 
they  wait  in  patience,  giving  thanks  to 
God. 


[ 112  1 


COROT 


“ But  the  sun  sinks  more  and  more 
behind  the  horizon.  Bam ! Bam  ! it  casts 
its  last  ray,  a smoke  of  gold  and  purple 
which  fringes  the  fleeing  cloud.  Now 
then  see ! it  has  altogether  disappeared ! 
Good  ! Good  ! the  twilight  begins. 

“ Dieu,  how  charming  it  is ! The  sun 
has  disappeared — There  remains  in  the 
softened  sky  only  a vaporous  tint  of  pale 
lemon,  the  last  reflection  of  that  charlatan 
of  a sun,  which  melts  into  the  deep  blue 
of  night  in  passing  through  the  greenish 
shades  of  pale  turquoise,  of  a fineness 
unheard  of,  a delicacy  fluid  and  intan- 
gible. The  fields  lose  their  color — the 
trees  only  form  brown  or  gray  masses — the 
darkened  waters  reflect  the  soft  tones  of  the 
sky — One  begins  to  see  nothing  more — 
one  feels  that  everything  is  there — All  is 
vague,  confused.  Nature  is  falling  asleep 
— Yet  the  fresh  air  of  the  evening  sighs 
among  the  leaves  ; the  birds,  those  voices  of 
the  flowers,  repeat  the  evening  prayer — 
The  dew  strews  with  pearls  the  velvet  of 
the  lawn — The  nymphs  flee,  hide  them- 
selves— and  desire  to  be  seen. 

“ Bing ! a star  of  heaven  plunges  head 
foremost  into  the  pond.  Charming  star, 
[ ”3] 


B ARBIZON  DAYS 


whose  scintillation  the  trembling  of  the 
water  increases ; you  are  looking  at  me — 
you  are  smiling  at  me  and  winking  too — 
Bing!  a second  star  appears  in  the  water,  a 
second  eye  opens.  Welcome,  fresh  and 
smiling  stars.  Bing ! bing ! bing ! three, 
six,  twenty  stars,  all  the  stars  of  heaven 
have  given  each  other  a tryst  in  that  blessed 
pond.  All  grows  still  darker— Only  the 
pond  scintillates— It  is  a swarming  of  stars. 
The  illusion  is  produced— The  sun  having 
hidden  itself,  the  inner  sun  of  the  soul,  the 
sun  of  art  rises — Bon ! Voila  mon  tableau 
fait!”  And  afterward — 

“After  my  excursions  I invite  Nature  to 
come  and  pass  several  days  with  me.  Brush 
in  hand,  I hunt  for  nuts  in  the  forest  of  my 
atelier.  I hear  there  the  birds  singing,  the 
trees  trembling  under  the  wind.  I see 
there  the  brooks  flowing,  and  the  river 
charged  with  a thousand  reflections  of  the 
sky  and  of  all  that  lives  upon  the  banks — 
the  sun  rises  and  sets  chez  moi” 

Corot,  painted  by  himself,  in  the  open- 
hearted  abandon  of  correspondence,  was  a 
simple  child,  whose  life  fed  upon  the  sun- 
light and  the  song  of  Nature,  just  as  all 
green  things  that  live  in  the  forest  do. 

[ ”4] 


COROT 


Life’s  sorrows  and  disappointments  he  knew 
unquestionably;  for  who  can  pass  through 
life  and  not  know  them?  Summer  does 
not  rule  in  Nature  throughout  the  twelve- 
month,  and  even  midsummer’s  shield  cannot 
ward  off  the  blow  and  gloom  of  the  storm. 
Yet  there  are  hearts,  as  there  are  fountains, 
so  pure  and  self-nourished,  that  no  shadow 
or  soil  of  earth  can  tarnish  them  long. 
The  returning  sunlight  chases  the  shadows 
away,  the  broken  twigs  and  dead  leaves, 
cast  therein  by  the  wind,  are  washed  up  on 
the  bank,  the  impure  dust  lies  clear  at  the 
bottom  of  the  pool. 

So  it  was  with  Corot;  and  the  more  we 
know  about  him,  the  more  complete  be- 
comes the  correspondence  between  the  work 
and  the  man,  the  man  and  his  environ- 
ment. He  went  by  the  name  of  “le 
Pere  Corot;”  Isnard  calls  him  “le  bon  Papa 
Corot;  ” all  his  contemporaries  speak  of  him 
with  tenderest  affection.  Dumesnil  says 
that  in  his  younger  years  he  was  among 
the  gayest  of  the  gay  at  the  dances  held  in 
the  Academy  of  Design*  and  always  wore 
,a  gorgeous  yellow  Spanish  costume.  Built 
like  a Hercules,  he  was  as  jovial  as  he  was 
robust.  In  his  studio  he  wore  a little  cap 
[”5] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


of  striped  cotton  and  a blue  blouse.  A 
high,  stiffly-starched  standing  collar  and  a 
pipe  were  also  part  of  his  costume.  To  and 
fro  he  went  humming, 

“ Je  sais  attacher  les  rubans, 

Je  sais  comment  poussent  les  roses.” 

Charles  Blanc  says  he  was  loved  as  a 
comrade  and  respected  as  a master  among 
the  landscapists,  his  juniors  by  twenty  years. 
“It  is  hard  to  say,”  he  adds,  “of  how 
many  things  his  popularity  consisted.  His 
uprightness  and  his  good  humor  counted 
for  a good  deal  therein,  his  rustic  air  too, 
his  frank  face,  with  fine  and  tender  ex- 
pression, and  his  joviality.”  William  Hunt 
says:  “Corot  was  strong,  stanch,  decided, 
cheerful  about  his  own  things.  When  I 
saw  him  last  he  was  seventy-seven.  He 
said:  ‘If  the  Lord  lets  me  live  two  years 
longer,  I think  I can  paint  something 
beautiful.’  ” * 

He  painted  smiling  or  singing,  j-  While 
at  his  work  he  was  constantly  exclaiming: 
“ Correggio,  Giorgione,  lend  me  your 

* When  some  one  remarked,  “ You,  Corot,  built  as  you  are,  you 
will  last  one  hundred  years,”  he  replied,  “I — one  hundred  and  four 
years  I I expect  to  obtain  from  the  bon  Dieu  les  quatre  au  cent  l" 
t Silvestre  says : “ He  talks  or  listens  to  you  hopping  on  one  foot 
or  both.”  “ When  the  public  was  all  opposed  to  him,  he  said,  with 
his  good  and  fine  smile  : ‘ They  will  come  to  it.’  ” 

[ 116  ] 


COROT 


hi  sh!”  He  wanden  d about  in  a la: 
bi> -use,  with  great  i -r.  and  was  a’"  tv. 
talking  aloud  with  Nans::*,  with  the  bird-, 
the  bn  terflies,  the  tree  ! i for  me  v n 
are  singing,  little  bird  : ns  is  fine' 

Every  spring  he  fled  t uintry.  He 

said:  “In  the  spring  I < -dezvous 

with  Narure,  with  the  b begin  to 

burst,  with  the  new  fob.  • th  my 

Htflt  birds,  perching  cur-  •. 
of  a branc  h to  look  at  my  w He  did 

not  like  to  have  night  con’  mb  top  his 
painting,  vet  he  would  alw  v remark 
cheerily:  “ Well^ h^n^st  n , heavenly 
Father  has  put  ouil  my  ^amp.  When  his 
day’s  work  pleased  him,  he  would  say  to 
his  mother:  “A  little  fairy  came,  and,  by 
touching  m<  with  hei  wand,  has  given  me 
success.” 

He  loved  music  passionately,  but  was  no 
reader.  He  had  purchased  a ticket  once 
for  a symphony  cor  ■ n Daubigny 

happened  in,  and  Co  insisted  upon  his 
using  the  ticket.  In  referring  to  it  after- 
ward, he  said  that  he  had  heard  every  bit 
of  the  musk  in  his  room,  shared  Daubigny’s 
pleasure  beside,  and,  “over  and  above  all 
that,  here’s  Daubigny  thanking  me  for  it !” 


■■■ 


COROT 


brush  ! ” He  wandered  about  in  a large  blue 
blouse,  with  great  parasol,  and  was  always 
talking  aloud  with  Nature,  with  the  birds, 
the  butterflies,  the  trees.  “ Is  it  for  me  you 
are  singing,  little  bird?  Well,  this  is  fine!” 
Every  spring  he  fled  to  the  country.  He 
said:  “In  the  spring  I have  a rendezvous 
with  Nature,  with  the  buds  which  begin  to 
burst,  with  the  new  foliage  and  with  my 
little  birds,  perching  curiously  on  the  end 
of  a branch  to  look  at  my  work.”  He  did 
not  like  to  have  night  come  and  stop  his 
painting,  yet  he  would  always  remark 
cheerily:  “Well,  I must  stop,  my  heavenly 
Father  has  put  out  my  lamp.”  When  his 
day’s  work  pleased  him,  he  would  say  to 
his  mother:  “A  little  fairy  came,  and,  by 
touching  me  with  her  wand,  has  given  me 
success.” 

He  loved  music  passionately,  but  was  no 
reader.  He  had  purchased  a ticket  once 
for  a symphony  concert  when  Daubigny 
happened  in,  and  Corot  insisted  upon  his 
using  the  ticket.  In  referring  to  it  after- 
ward, he  said  that  he  had  heard  every  bit 
of  the  music  in  his  room,  shared  Daubigny’s 
pleasure  beside,  and,  “over  and  above  all 
that,  here’s  Daubigny  thanking  me  for  it!” 
[ “7  1 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


He  bought  books  on  the  Quays  for  their  form 
and  color,  and  put  them  in  the  hands  of 
his  models.  He  read,  we  are  told,  one 
book  over  and  over  again,  selecting  for  that 
purpose  Corneille’s  Polyeuctes.  “For  twenty 
years,”  one  of  his  friends  says,  “ he  has 
been  going  over  the  first  two  hundred 
verses  of  this  tragedy,  but  never  gets  to  the 
end  of  it,  and,  when  he  talks  of  reading, 
he  says : “ But  this  year  I must  finish 

Polyeuctes .” 

His  generosity  was  in  harmony  with  the 
rest  of  his  great,  glad  nature.  He  would 
never  accept  any  money  from  his  pupils 
and  gave  always  generously,  even  when 
living  on  the  modest  income  allowed 
him  by  his  father.  In  1855  he  inherited 
an  estate  yielding  annually  25,000  francs. 
Success  in  art  came  at  about  the  same  time, 
and  he  was  soon  earning  large  sums  with 
his  brush.  He  placed  the  inherited  income 
out  of  his  reach,  allowing  it  to  accumulate 
for  his  nephews  and  nieces,  and  the  estate 
had  nearly  tripled  at  his  death.  His  own 
habits  were  very  simple,  and  he  used  the 
surplus  of  his  earnings  for  his  chief  diver- 
sion, helpfulness  to  others. 

He  gave  away  many  annuities,  some,  his 
[118] 


In  the  Forest 

( From  Nature) 


COROT 


godson  says,  of  6,000  francs  each.  To  en- 
courage and  assist  his  less  fortunate  com- 
rades, he  would  pretend  to  be  enthusiastic 
about  their  paintings  and  purchase  them. 
The  artist,  Honore  Daumier,  had  become 
blind,  and  it  was  reported  that  his  landlord 
was  about  to  dispossess  him.  Corot  pur- 
chased the  villa  and  sent  the  title  deeds  to 
Daumier  with  the  message:  “This  time  I 

defy  your  proprietor  to  put  you  out  of 
doors.”  Daumier  replied:  “You  are  the 

only  man  I esteem  enough  to  be  able  to 
accept  from  him  anything  without  blush- 
ing.” 

He  made  one  year,  near  Arras,  a study 
of  a little  peasant  girl.  On  his  return  the 
following  year  he  learned  that  the  child 
had  been  drowned.  Carrying  his  sketch  to 
the  father,  he  said:  “Here  is  your  daughter 
come  back!”  The  peasant  would  never 
permit  that  sketch  to  be  either  loaned  to  an 
exposition  or  seen  by  any  one  but  himself, 
and  directed  in  his  will  that  it  be  laid  on 
his  heart  to  sleep  with  him  in  the  tomb. 

Corot  encouraged  all  who  frequently 
sought  his  assistance  to  continue  to  come, 
declaring  that  it  was  a pleasure  to  him  to 
help  others.  He  said:  “I  would  rather 
[ ”9] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


give  to  ten  who  are  undeserving  than  deny 
a single  one  who  is  in  want;”  and  again: 
“ I never  accumulate  my  revenues,  and, 
from  fear  of  a flood,  I raise  the  gates  every 
year  ; that  is,  if  something  remains  over,  I 
make  a little  distribution  to  all  my  neph- 
ews. . . . Those  who  are  rich  buy  shawls 
for  their  wives,  those  who  are  poor  buy 
mutton  or  petticoats.” 

Yet  Corot  never  looked  upon  giving  as 
meritorious;  he  had  more  than  he  needed 
and  others  lacked ; he  was  simply  readjusting 
the  balance;  besides,  “it’s  nothing,  it’s  my 
temperament  and  my  happiness.  I gain  it 
back  so  quickly  in  painting  a bough  ; that 
always  produces  for  me  more  than  it  costs. 
I work  better  and  with  the  heart  more  at 
ease.  Once  I gave  away  a thousand  francs; 
that  was  all  my  pocket  could  stand  for  the 
moment.  The  next  day  I sold  paintings 
for  six  thousand  francs.  You  see  that  the 
thing  had  brought  me  good  fortune,  and  it’s 
always  so.” 

When  he  foresaw,  in  1870,  that  the 
siege  of  Paris  was  inevitable,  he  returned 
thither  August  29th  and  remained  until 
the  end,  helping  those  in  need  with  his 
money,  assisting  in  the  ambulances,  and 
[ 120  ] 


COROT 


working  hard  all  the  time  at  his  painting, 
without  which,  he  said  : “I  believe  I should 
have  gone  mad.”  When  the  national  sub- 
scription for  the  liberation  of  the  territory 
was  opened,  he  gave  ten  thousand  francs, 
and  was  deeply  pained  when  it  was  re- 
turned to  him  because  the  plan  had  mis- 
carried. And,  most  touching  of  all,  it  was 
on  his  own  deathbed  that  he  learned  of 
Millet’s  death.  Corot  esteemed  Millet 
highly;  but  Sensier  says  they  were  never 
friends,  only  acquaintances.  Yet  Corot  at 
once  took  measures  to  provide  permanently 
for  Millet’s  destitute  family. 

Auguste  Isnard  says  : “ Of  religion,  Corot 
loved  only  Christ  and  his  teachings.  He 
had  always  in  his  room  ‘The  Imitation  of 
Christ,’  and  it  is  in  this  favorite  book  that 
he  learned  how  to  pass  life  in  calm,  and  to 
close  his  heart  to  the  breath  of  ambition 
and  of  egoism.”  What  wonder  that  Burty 
should  say  of  him  that  he  was  perhaps 
more  loved  than  any  other  contemporary  ! 

Corot’s  life,  after  his  return  from  Rome, 
resembles  Millet’s  with  those  wide  diver- 
gences which  the  difference  in  their 
natures  and  in  their  financial  conditions 
caused.  Corot  too  had  to  struggle  almost 
[ 121  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


until  the  end  against  the  opposition  of 
those  in  power  in  the  art  world.  He  was 
decorated  after  the  Salon  of  1846,  and  that 
persuaded  his  father  to  say:  “I  think  I 
might  allow  Camille  a little  more  money 
now.”*  But  the  battle  continued  still  for 
a long  time.  Success  came  to  him  only  at 
the  age  of  sixty.  After  he  had  become 
famous,  Corot  said:  “What  an  astonishing 
thing  it  is  for  me  to  find  myself  to-day  an 
interesting  man ! What  a pity  that  it  was 
not  told  sooner  to  my  father,  who  had  such 
a grudge  against  my  paintings  and  who  did 
not  find  anything  good  therein  because  I 
did  not  sell  them  ! ” 

The  grand  medal  of  honor  was  not 
given  to  Corot  after  the  exposition  of 
1874.  His  friends  had  wished  therefor, 
and  considered  it  fitting  as  a final  and  full 
recognition  of  the  master’s  work.  A 
movement  started  in  consequence  among 
the  artists,  which  led  to  a public  sub- 
scription and  the  preparation  of  a gold 
medal,  the  gift  of  his  friends  and  admirers. 

Just  at  this  time  his  sister,  with  whom 
he  had  shared  the  cottage  in  Ville-d’Avray, 
died.  His  own  health,  hitherto  rugged. 


* Will  Low  says  that  his  allowance  was  doubled. 

[ 122  ] 


COROT 


for  he  had  never  been  sick,  declined  there- 
after rapidly. 

The  dinner  was  given  at  the  Grand  Hotel 
the  29th  of  December,  three  to  four 
hundred  persons  were  present,  and  the  dear 
old  master  was  welcomed  with  great  en- 
thusiasm and  affection. 

When  the  medal  was  presented  Corot, 
already  sadly  changed  in  appearance,  whis- 
pered to  the  presiding  officer:  “ One  is  very 
happy  to  feel  one’s  self  loved  like  that.” 
It  was  the  end;  he  went  to  his  atelier  at 
times,  but  could  not  work,  yet  he  loved  to 
linger  there  among  his  studies;  he  had 
given  scarce  any  away,  and  they  were  the 
journal  of  his  artist  life.  His  pictures  for 
the  Salon  of  1875  were  ready,  lacking  only 
his  signature,  when  his  strength  failed 
him  utterly.  They  were  brought  to  him 
as  he  lay  on  his  dying  bed;  after  signing 
them  he  fell  back,  saying:  “Behold  all 
that  I can  do.”  It  was  the  last  time  that 
he  touched  a brush. 

A few  days  before  his  death  he  said  to 
Fra^ais,  his  favorite  pupil:  “See,  I have 
almost  arrived  at  resignation,  but  it  is  not 
easy,  and  I have  been  striving  for  it  a long 
time.  Nevertheless,  I have  not  to  complain 
[ I23  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


of  my  lot ; quite  the  contrary.  I have  had 
health  during  seventy-eight  years,  love  of 
Nature,  of  painting  and  of  work.  My 
family  consisted  of  brave  folk.  I have  had 
good  friends,  and  believe  I have  done  ill  to 
no  one.  My  lot  in  life  has  been  excellent, 
and,  far  from  addressing  any  reproach  to 
destiny,  I can  only  thank  her.  I must  go, 
I know  it,  and  I do  not  wish  to  believe 
it ; despite  myself  I conserve  still  a little 
hope,  and  (trying  to  smile)  sometimes  I 
would  like  to  get  near  that  soup  I loved  so 
well,  and,  if  Madame  T.  put  a good  bit  of 
cabbage  in  the  dish,  that  would  be  perfect.”* 

On  one  of  the  last  mornings  he  said:  “I 
saw  last  night,  in  a dream,  a landscape  with 
a sky  all  rose.  The  clouds  also  were  rose; 
it  was  delicious.  I recall  it  very  well.  It 
will  be  admirable  to  paint.”  In  his  last 
moments  he  moved  his  right  hand  to  the 
wall,  his  fingers  seemed  to  be  holding  a 
brush,  and  he  said  : “ Look,  how  beautiful 
it  is ! I have  never  seen  such  admirable 
landscapes.”  He  died  on  Tuesday,  the 
twenty-third  of  February,  1875,  five  weeks 
after  the  death  of  Millet. 

Corot’s  methods  of  work  were  radically 

* This  was  an  allusion  to  the  reunions  with  his  artist  friends. 

[ I24  ] 


' 

&hud  ”\o  M&S? 


. 


The  TSath  of  Diana 


COROT 


different  from  Millet’s.  We  know  that  all 
of  Millet’s  great  canvases  are  the  results  of 
deep  experience,  long  and  careful  study, 
and  painfully  slow  and  conscientious  execu- 
tion. Hunt  says  that  he  would  work  over 
a canvas  long  after  every  one  else  thought  it 
finished,  when  the  picture  was  sold  and  he 
needed  every  franc  that  new  work  could 
bring  him. 

Corot,  we  are  told,  worked  rapidly,  and 
disliked  to  either  spend  a long  time  over  a 
canvas  or  to  take  it  up  anew,  from  fear  of 
dulling  the  spontaneity  and  the  charm  of 
the  immediate  interpretation. 

There  is  perhaps  no  word-artist,  save 
Shakespeare,  whose  natural  endowment  sur- 
passed that  of  Lope  de  Vega.  He  heard 
all  the  rhythmed  voices  wherein  Nature 
speaks;  birds  carolling,  trees  putting  forth 
green  leaves,  fountains  sparkling,  grain 
fields  waving,  dashed  with  the  scarlet 
poppy;  or  where,  in  human  life,  as  well 
as  in  Nature,  the  strong,  stern  chords  of 
passion  are  struck.  Singing  as  the  birds 
sing,  producing  without  effort,  he  failed  to 
create  a “ Lear,”  a “ Hamlet  ” or  a “ Pros- 
pero.”  Yet  how  Nature  shimmers  through 
Lope’s  verse ! How  perfectly  he  re-gives, 

[ I25  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


in  poetic  numbers,  the  tripping  measures 
and  the  dewy  atmosphere  of  the  springtime ! 

Yet  this  is  not  said  in  criticism  or  in 
condemnation  of  Corot’s  methods.  He 
knew  best  how  to  express  what  Nature 
said  to  him.  That  fresh  grace,  akin  to 
Lope’s,  which  he  feared  to  tarnish  by 
using  the  brush  in  hours  when  Nature 
was  not  with  him,  constitutes  the  distinct- 
ive charm  of  his  canvases — to  each  artist, 
liberty  and  his  own  conscience  as  supreme 
judge ! 

Corot  said:  “To  enter  well  into  my 
landscapes  one  must  have  at  least  the 
patience  to  let  the  mist  rise;  one  only 
penetrates  therein  little  by  little,  and,  when 
one  is  there,  one  ought  to  enjoy  oneself.” 
But  we  do  not  need  to  wait  for  the  mist  to 
rise  in  order  to  enjoy  ourselves  in  that  land 
of  idyls,  which  is  Nature  and  yet  not 
Nature,  a landscape  seen  in  the  real  world, 
and  then  re-seen,  transfigured,  in  the  world 
of  dreams.  “I  dream  my  picture,”  Corot 
said;  “by  and  by  I will  paint  my  dream.” 
We  would  not  have  Corot  otherwise.  We 
are  willing  to  renounce  the  grand  master 
rather  than  sacrifice  the  weaver  of  ballads. 

Whose  work  is  best  done,  his  work  is 

[ 126  ] 


COROT 


highest;  for  to  each  of  her  interpreters 
Nature  has  assigned  a special  service,  and 
who  can  tell  through  which  portal  of  her 
many-doored  temple  the  greater  throng  will 
come  to  find  rest  and  renewal  of  courage. 
It  may  be  at  the  proud  portal  of  the  drama, 
it  may  be  at  the  humble  gate  of  the  ballad;  it 
may  be  in  an  epic  strophe  of  Millet,  it  may 
be  in  a summer  idyl  of  Corot. 


1*27  3 


Theodore  Rousseau 


Rousseau 


Rousseau's  House  at  cBarbtzon 


rf*-,  - . - 


V'.\S 


nOSS*!*' 


m 2.  ttfcy^.oSl 


Barbizon 


ROUSSEAU 


Rousseau 

Following  the  main  street  of  Barbizon, 
some  five  minutes’  walk  beyond  Millet’s 
home,  you  will  see  on  your  left,  through 
the  bars  of  a broad  iron  gate,  a charming 
little  garden  of  flower  beds  and  low  trees. 
There  is  a tiny  church  to  the  right,  in  the 
rear  of  the  garden.  It  is  of  recent  date, 
having  been  built  since  the  time  of  the 
great  artists.  Farther  back  to  the  left  a 
nest  of  a house  is  hiding.  Vines  cover  it 
completely;  a stone  stair  leads,  at  the  end 
nearest  the  church,  to  a loft  which  oc- 
cupies the  whole  upper  floor,  and  was  once 
used  for  storing  hay,  but  by  Theodore 
Rousseau  as  an  atelier.  A photograph  of 
Rousseau’s  time  shows  the  vines  peering  in 
everywhere,  scarce  allowing  space  enough 
at  the  door  for  entrance,  looking  in  at  the 
bedroom  wdndow  to  wish  good  morning, 
and  striving  to  clamber  up  the  covered 
stair,  leading  to  the  master’s  atelier , in  order 
to  watch  him  at  his  work.  The  rooms  are 
tiny,  scarce  large  enough  to  contain  the 
necessary  furniture,  and  the  rear  garden  is 
correspondingly  small. 

[ ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Man  was  for  Millet  the  grand  earth 
poem.  But  Rousseau  said:  “The  tree 

which  rustles  and  the  heather  which  grows 
are  for  me  the  grand  history,  that  which 
will  not  change.  If  I speak  well  their 
language,  I shall  have  spoken  well  the 
language  of  all  times.” 

Pierre-Etienne-Theodore  Rousseau  was 
born  in  Paris,  April  15  th,  1812,  and  was 
the  only  child  of  his  parents.  His  father 
was  a successful  tailor,  and  a man  of  super- 
abounding  kindness.  He  does  not  seem  to 
have  been  able  to  resist  any  appeal  for  help, 
and  his  charities,  with  his  indulgence 
toward  his  noble  patrons,  prevented  him 
from  ever  accumulating  a property.  Sensier 
says  that  he  gave  away  ten  thousand  francs 
at  the  time  of  the  burning  of  Salins  in 
1825;  Rouget  de  Lisle,  the  author  of  the 
“Marseillaise,”  was  supported  by  him  for 
years,  as  also  a multitude  of  others,  in- 
cluding political  refugees  of  all  nationalities, 
poets  and  vaudevillists.  Rousseau’s  mother 
was  a woman  of  superior  character  and 
charming  appearance.  The  home  was  a 
happy  one,  the  wife  and  mother  its  centre, 
and  husband  and  son  attached  to  her  with 
a tender  and  respectful  affection.  A num- 
[ r32  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


ber  of  Rousseau’s  kinsfolk  on  his  mother’s 
side  had  already  shown  artistic  talent.  Her 
cousin,  Alexandre  Pau  de  Saint-Martin,  was 
a landscape  painter  of  some  reputation. 
The  boy,  Theodore,  loved  to  pass  his  free 
hours  in  the  atelier  of  his  uncle,  as  he 
called  him,  copying  the  paintings  on  the 
wall;  but  he  always  added  something  of 
his  own,  the  wall  itself,  the  nearest  objects, 
in  fine,  all  surroundings.  It  was  a kind  of 
instinct  with  him  to  give  everything  its 
natural  environment.  At  the  same  time  he 
was  copying,  with  his  pen,  engravings,  and 
displaying  therein  that  same  tenacity  and 
patience  of  detail  which  characterized  his 
mature  work.* 

When  Rousseau  was  from  twelve  to 
fifteen  years  old  he  accompanied  M.  Maire, 
a friend  and  compatriot  of  his  father,  into 
the  forests  of  the  Franche-Comte.  M. 
Maire  and  his  brother  had  established  a 
sawmill  in  a faubourg  of  Besan9on  for  the 

* Sensier  records  also  the  germination  of  another  characteristic 
trait  of  Rousseau,  his  sympathy  with  the  lower  orders  of  Nature, 
his  unwillingness  to  inflict  suffering  upon  anything  that  had  life. 
One  day,  while  handling  a lizard,  its  tail  was  broken  off,  and  he 
would  never  thereafter  touch  one  from  fear  of  injuring  it.  As 
mature  man,  he  preferred  to  bear  with  the  ants  and  other  insects 
that  invaded  his  home  rather  than  disturb  them.  Everything  that 
lived,  animal  and  vegetable,  had  for  him  its  habits  and  its  rights, 
and  it  was  unjust  and  cruel  for  man  to  interfere.  For  the  same 
reason  he  would  never  carry  a firearm. 

[ *33  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


exploitation  of  the  timber,  and  the  lad 
served  as  aid  and  secretary.  He  saw  now 
for  the  first  time  a forest  in  its  wild  state, 
and  the  trees  charmed  and  intoxicated  him. 
There  he  remained  a year,  when  the  failure 
of  the  enterprise  caused  him  to  return  home. 

It  is  supposed  that  his  parents  had  chosen 
for  him  the  career  of  civil  engineer,  but 
the  lad  took  the  matter  into  his  own  hands. 
He  was  the  only  child,  and,  while  docile 
and  affectionate,  also  resolute  and  persistent, 
and  his  parents  stood  loyally  by  him, 
always  seconding  every  just  desire.  Pro- 
viding himself  with  an  artist’s  outfit,  with- 
out informing  any  one  of  his  purpose,  young 
Theodore  went  one  day  to  the  Butte 
Montmartre,  and,  sitting  down  in  front 
of  the  old  church,  “began  to  sketch  what- 
ever he  saw  before  him— -church,  cemetery, 
trees,  walls,  and  the  upward  slope  of  the 
land.  In  a few  days  he  had  finished  a 
study  which  was  accurate,  firm  and  very 
natural  in  its  tone.” 

The  cousin-uncle,  Pau  de  Saint-Martin, 
was  consulted.  He  took  the  lad  off  with 
him  to  Compiegne,  and  had  him  make 
studies  from  Nature  under  his  eye.  On 
their  return  he  advised  Rousseau’s  parents 
[ x34  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


to  send  him  to  Remond,  a landscapist, 
whom  he  esteemed  as  second  only  to 
Demarne  among  French  masters.  This 
occurred  in  1826.  Rousseau  began  there- 
fore in  earnest  his  art  career  at  fourteen. 

He  was  not  pleased  with  the  instruction 
received  in  Remond’s  classical  atelier.  He 
always  spoke  of  it  afterward  with  contempt. 
“ It  took  me  several  years  to  get  rid  of 
Remond’s  spectres.”  He  escaped,  therefore, 
as  often  as  he  could  from  the  atelier  regime 
into  the  open  freedom  of  Nature,  making 
Sunday  excursions  to  the  charmingly  wooded 
suburbs  of  Saint-Cloud  and  Sevres,  and,  on 
longer  holidays,  pushing  further  out  into 
the  country.  Once  he  traversed  the  Forest 
of  Fontainebleau  to  Moret,  some  fifty  miles 
from  Paris,  and  made  a study  of  the  route 
royale.  The  natural  school  of  landscapists 
had  not  yet  come  decisively  forward;  the 
classical  school  was  in  undisputed  mastery. 
But  Rousseau’s  instinctive  aversion  to  the 
atelier  rules  and  his  intense  love  for  Nature 
were  already  an  indication  of  the  coming 
revolt. 

The  Grand  Prix  de  Rome,  left  vacant 
by  Michallon’s  death,  was  open  to  com- 
petition, and  Remond  desired  to  put  Rous- 
[ I3S  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


seau  in  training  therefor.  The  pupil  at 
first  consented,  and  prepared  himself  to 
paint  the  classical  trees  and  the  proper 
heroic  surroundings  for  the  theme  an- 
nounced in  the  official  programme;  “Ze- 
nobia  dead  in  the  waves  of  A raxes,  picked 
up  by  fishermen.”  But  his  artistic  common 
sense  revolted.  “What  need  had  they  of 
digging  up  Zenobia  in  order  to  put  soul 
into  a landscape?”  He  gave  up  the  task 
and  played  truant  with  more  seriousness 
than  before,  sketching  in  the  open  air 
at  Dampierre  and  the  Vaux  de  Cernay,  and 
in  the  dull  winter  days  copying  in  the 
Louvre  the  animals  of  Du  Jardin  and 
Claude’s  landscapes.  He  studied  the  human 
figure  in  the  atelier  of  Guillon-Lethiere. 

The  year  1830  was  an  epoch-making 
one  for  Rousseau.  He  was  then  between 
eighteen  and  nineteen,  an  age  when,  if 
young  manhood  is  strong,  there  is  a joy  in 
that  strength  and  a confidence  in  its  powers 
of  achievement  which  seldom  return  with 
mature  years.  The  spirit  of  the  age,  too, 
was  youthful,  revolutionary  and  Byronic. 
Rousseau  had  resolved  to  shake  off  entirely 
the  academic  fetters.  Though  his  biog- 
rapher does  not  state  it  in  so  many  words, 
L 136  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


it  is  clear  that  he  felt,  if  Nature  alone  were 
to  be  his  teacher  and  guide  henceforth,  he 
must  seek  her  out  where  she  manifested 
herself  in  all  her  primitive  strength. 

He  went  therefore  with  a friend  directly 
to  the  Cantal  mountains  in  the  Auvergnat, 
“a  weirdly  picturesque  volcanic  region,” 
Mollett  says,  “where  the  hilltops  spread 
in  star-shaped  ranges  from  a central  dome, 
and  between  them  are  inaccessible  ravines 
and  noisy  torrents  rushing  through  with 
frequent  tremendous  cascades,  and  on  the 
hills  black  forests  of  firs,  alternating  with 
wild  scenery  of  barren  upheavals  of  rock.” 
Rousseau’s  eye  became  clear  and  his  hand 
firm  in  the  presence  of  this  unshorn  Nature, 
and  his  spirit,  breaking  entirely  with  the 
traditions  of  the  schools,  went  forth  in 
freedom  and  with  ecstasy  to  gather  in  its 
first  harvest. 

Naturally  the  savage  and  bizarre  aspects 
of  Nature  attracted  him  most.  “ He  turned 
himself,”  Sensier  says,  “with  a kind  of 
delight  to  the  most  sinister  mountains,  the 
widest  horizons,  the  secret  places  invaded 
by  the  capricious  travails  of  the  genesis. 
The  country  afforded  him  a vast  uplifting 
of  frightful  precipices,  where  the  Cere  now 
[ x37  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


plunges  in  impetuous  rapids,  now  falls 
asleep  in  yawning  abysses.  He  applied 
himself  with  insatiable  pleasure  to  rendering 
a denuded  rock,  to  painting  the  ruggedness 
of  virgin  soil,  to  sounding  the  giddy  depths 
of  black  torrents  and  accursed  whirlpools, 
as  well  as  of  gloomy  caverns.”  This  first 
season  of  freedom  was  one  of  revelling  in 
Nature.  He  roamed  everywhere  about  the 
forests  and  wilds,  sharing  with  the  goat- 
herds their  bread  and  couch.  He  passed 
the  nights  frequently  in  the  open  air, 
watching  the  pallid  light,  seeking  to  know, 
to  grasp,  the  life  of  that  mysterious  world 
of  the  night. 

Millet  went  forth  to  the  work  appointed 
him  as  a mature  man.  He  had  counted 
the  cost,  a life-long  struggle,  poverty,  and 
perhaps  no  recognition.  Corot  escaped 
to  the  summer  land  of  his  dreams ; his 
servile  years  ended  with  the  day  when  he 
went  down  to  the  bank  of  the  Seine  and 
began  to  sketch.  Thenceforth  his  life 
flowed  on  as  a river,  calmly  resolute,  deeply 
peaceful.  Rousseau  made  his  choice  in  an 
ecstasy  of  glad  communing  with  Nature, 
when  manhood’s  strength  leaped  as  an  un- 
locked fountain  within  him. 

[*38] 


( From  a <Dra<wing) 


:n  '•  .pid. . * ^ 

. 

m • leaSure  to  r<  • • $k 

tg  . accursed  whirl  potd>- 
< ms.  his  first 

< - reve  ing  iv, 

v where  about  the 


V\  • P u mor1! ) 


costas . 


t ' -.  'U,.  -■  ! 


.id  >f  his  dr- -u;  } H . s ■ 

•*d  fpith  ‘die  iv  whOi]  hr 

- voeir:e  ■ rd  , 


•u  marie  hi>-  choke 


ROUSSEAU 


One  stormy  night  he  thought  himself 
lost  in  the  vegetation  of  a morass  without 
limits.  He  was  in  water  up  to  his  arms 
several  times  and  in  real  danger.  At  day- 
break he  came  to  a pasture,  upon  a slope 
of  the  ancient  domains  of  Recoule  and 
Muret,  and  found  there  a goatherd  in  his 
hut,  who  warmed  him  at  his  fire  and 
gave  him  a breakfast  of  buckwheat  bread, 
quail,  and  cheese  made  from  goat’s  milk. 
He  remained  there  two  days,  running  about 
with  his  host  and  reconnoitering  the  whole 
canton,  and  ended  the  adventure  by  drag- 
ging the  mountaineer  to  the  little  city  of 
Thiezac  in  order  to  requite  his  hospitality 
with  a town  feast. 

On  Rousseau’s  return  to  Paris  with  his 
studies,  his  master,  Remond,  “ gave  him 
over  to  the  infernal  gods.  His  work,  he 
said,  was  the  fruit  of  delirium,  and  there 
was  nothing  wiser  for  him  to  do  now  than 
to  go  back  and  live  with  the  swineherds  of 
the  Auvergnat.”  At  this  crucial  moment, 
happily  for  Rousseau,  his  parents  had  suffi- 
cient affectionate  confidence  in  him  to 
allow  him  entire  liberty  of  action.  Nor 
was  he  long  without  an  advocate,  whose 
judgment  in  artistic  matters  was  respected. 

[ *39  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Ary  Scheffer  was  then  known  as  a patriotic 
painter  and  a literary  critic.  The  works  of 
Rousseau  were  shown  to  him,  and  he  was 
profoundly  impressed.  He  felt  that  an 
original  and  robust  talent  was  here  marking 
out  a path  for  itself.  In  his  own  youth 
and  poverty  he  had  received  substantial  aid 
and  encouragement  from  Gerard,  the  official 
painter  of  the  king,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
the  noble  way  of  repaying  that  debt  to  aid 
in  a similar  manner  a young  artist  of  such 
unusual  promise.  He  took  Rousseau’s 
paintings  therefore,  “hung  them  on  the 
walls  of  his  own  atelier  and  called  the 
attention  of  all  his  visitors  to  them  as  the 
works  of  a most  original  and  incisive 
talent.” 

Rousseau  had  an  immediate  success. 
The  young  Romantic  School  saw  in  him 
an  exponent  of  their  ideas.  The  uncon- 
ventional and  robust  spirit  of  his  studies 
was  in  accord  with  the  aspirations  of  that 
school,  and  with  much  of  the  earlier  work 
of  its  master  in  literature— Victor  Hugo. 
Here  was  an  artist  who  did  not  hesitate  to 
paint  the  rugged  and  bizarre  aspects  of 
Nature,  without  preoccupying  himself  as 
to  whether  such  landscapes  were  in  harmony 
[ 140] 


ROUSSEAU 


with  the  traditions  of  the  schools  and  the 
ruling  laws  of  taste  in  art.  It  was  enough 
for  him  that  he  had  found  them  in  Nature 
and  had  faithfully  represented  them,  or 
interpreted  what  they  said  to  him.  With- 
out seeking  such  distinction,  simply  because 
the  march  of  his  spirit  was  in  harmony 
with  that  of  the  young  generation,  Rousseau 
became  a champion  of  the  new  school. 
His  work  found  also  favor  in  the  eyes  of 
critics  who  were  non-partisan,  and  all  of 
them  agreed  that  his  studies  marked  a 
grand  advance  in  French  art  in  the  direc- 
tion of  truth  and  naturalism. 

Rousseau  did  not,  in  his  elation  over  his 
success,  remain  idle  and  cease  to  advance. 
The  recognition  he  had  won  stimulated  him 
the  rather  to  more  earnest  study.  Though, 
in  his  work,  a recognized  leader  of  the  young 
school,  he  took  little  part  in  the  discussions 
of  the  day  between  Classicists  and  Romanti- 
cists. He  preferred  to  think  and  work.  He 
said  later:  “I  thought  only  of  one  thing,  to 
account  to  myself  for  the  laws  of  light  and 
perspective.  I did  not  attach  any  impor- 
tance to  what  they  found  original,  new  and 
romantic  in  me,  I sought  the  picture.” 

During  the  day  he  worked  in  his  atelier , 
[ 141  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


(9  Rue  Taitbout),or  in  the  open  air  at  Saint- 
Cloud,  and  took  counsel  of  his  former 
master,  Lethiere,  who  advised  him  to  study- 
in  entire  liberty.  The  evenings  were  spent 
socially  in  the  restaurants.  A favorite 
gathering  place  was  at  Lorentz’s,  18  Rue 
Notre-Dame  des  Victoires.  Almost  all  the 
members  of  that  group  have  since  become 
known.  They  smoked  a good  deal  but  in 
other  respects,  making  a virtue  of  necessity, 
were  very  abstemious.  Water  was  their 
regular  beverage.  Burette  was  able  once  to 
offer  five  bottles  of  beer  to  the  company, 
numbering  fifteen,  and  that  evening  was 
marked  with  a red  letter  in  their  souvenirs. 
Sensier  says:  “They  talked  about  the 

theatre,  Hugo,  Dumas,  Barbier,  painting, 
actresses,  the  republic,  travels;  they  made 
charades,  drew  up  programmes  and  estab- 
lished the  Society  of  the  Grelot  (little  bell), 
which  was  nothing  but  a laboratory  of 
mystifications  for  the  opponents  of  roman- 
ticism and  a graft  of  the  Society  of  the 
Invisibles  of  Charlet.  They  picked  the 
Institute  to  pieces  and  laid  an  interdict 
upon  the  Academy;  the  great  volcano  of 
1830  had  one  of  its  little  craters  there.” 
Several  times  they  appointed  a rendezvous 
[ 142  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


at  midnight  at  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  in 
order  to  go  from  there  without  stopping  to 
Dampierre  or  Chevreuse  and  return  at  once 
to  Paris  the  next  evening,  a walk  of  fifteen 
leagues.  Rousseau  was  one  of  the  inde- 
fatigable; he  made  sketches  en  route , but 
talked  little  about  his  work. 

In  the  following  year,  1831,  he  exhibited 
for  the  first  time  in  the  Royal  Salon  of  the 
Louvre.  His  picture  was  called  “ Site 
d’ Auvergne,”  and  was  a souvenir  of  the 
bridge  he  had  seen  at  Thiezac.  It  repre- 
sented a valley  bounded  by  the  Cantal 
mountains.  In  the  centre  was  a bridge 
with  ruined  arches.  The  public  paid  little 
attention  to  it,  but  the  young  school  praised 
it.  Jules  Dupre,  who  afterward  became 
Rousseau’s  bosom  friend,  had  also  four  land- 
scapes at  the  Salon  and  thus  made  his  dtbut. 
The  peace  and  rustic  charm  which  his  work 
translated  won  for  him  immediately  the 
public  opinion,  while  Rousseau’s  bolder  en- 
deavors created  both  partisans  and  enemies 
and  led  to  continual  discussions. 

Rousseau  felt  he  must  know  more  of 
Nature ; he  must  see  everything  in  order  to 
understand  and  interpret.  “ He  looked 
upon  Auvergne,”  he  said,  “as  only  his  first 
[ 143  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


day  of  creation.  There  he  had  assimilated 
the  spectacles  of  Titanic  regions,  of  the 
commencements  of  the  world  and  of  the 
first  sorrows  of  Nature;  he  had,  in  a sense, 
touched  the  age  of  iron  and  fire.  He 
thought  to  make  another  step  forward  in 
studying  countries  that  were  in  community 
of  life  with  man,  the  rivers,  the  trees,  the 
cultivated  fields,  the  villages,  and  to  attempt 
the  exploration  of  the  liquid  element,  the 
ocean,  which  gives  to  the  phenomena  of 
the  skies  their  variety  and  their  sudden 
movements.”  So  a portion  of  1831  and 
1 S 3 2 was  given  up  to  voyages  of  exploration 
into  the  unknown.  He  went  first  toward 
Rouen  and  studied  the  windings  of  the 
Seine,  thence  to  Andelys  where  he  sketched 
the  Norman  trees,  the  rocky  slopes  along 
the  rivers,  and  the  old  castles;  from  there 
to  Bayeux  and  the  cliffs  of  Arromanches  and 
explored  the  whole  coast  of  la  Manche  and 
Calvados.  He  made  a multitude  of  sketches 
and,  in  order  to  meet  man  under  his  native 
sky  and  know  him  too,  he  lodged  in  the 
country  inns  and  mingled  with  the  people. 

The  following  year,  1S32,  he  visited 
Normandy  again,  going  directly  to  Mont 
Saint-Michel,  and  from  this  trip  brought 
[ 144] 


ROUSSEAU 


back  the  sketch  for  his  Salon  picture  of 
1833,  “The  Coast  of  Granville.”  This 
painting  “placed  Rousseau  permanently  in 
the  front  rank  of  French  landscapists.”* 
M.  Lenormand,  in  writing  the  criticism  of 
the  Salon  for  that  year,  selected  the  work 
of  six  landscapists — Aligny,  Cabat,  Corot, 
Delaberge,  Dupre  and  Rousseau  for  an 
especial  examination.  He  said  of  Rous- 
seau’s painting:  “The  view  of  the  coast  of 
Granville  is  one  of  the  truest  things  and  the 
warmest  in  tone  that  the  French  school  has 
ever  produced.  What  M.  Rousseau  lacks 
is  especially  study  ...  he  is  still  far  from  his 
goal,  but  I would  not  give  his  future  for 
the  entire  career  of  twenty  of  our  most 
renowned  landscapists.” 

Another  round  of  the  ladder  was  beneath 
young  Rousseau’s  feet ; this  victory  was  a 
far  more  signal  one  than  that  of  three  years 
before,  but  he  remained  constant  to  his  aim 
and  unyielding  in  his  demands  upon  him- 
self. He  shut  himself  up  alone  in  his 
studio,  and  passed  his  days  in  meditation 
and  his  nights  in  painting.  In  the  summer 
he  returned  to  Saint-Cloud,  but  did  not 
linger  under  the  trees.  He  climbed  to  the 

*Sensier. 

[ 145  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


heights,  from  which  he  could  gain  grand 
sweeping  views,  and  there  painted  two 
panoramas — -one  from  the  terrace  of  Belle- 
Vue,  showing  the  Basin  of  Paris  and  the 
course  of  the  Seine,  and  the  second  from 
the  terrace  of  Saint-Cloud,  showing  the 
valley  of  Meudon  and  the  Isle  Seguin. 
He  made  many  studies  here,  and  often 
returned  from  these  days  of  communing 
with  Nature  too  agitated  to  sleep,  and 
passed  the  hot  summer  nights  in  his  garret 
atelier  in  feverish  intense  work. 

However  rapid  his  achievement,  his 
ambition  far  outran  it.  For  the  vision 
beautiful,  more  majestic,  more  alluring, 
with  each  larger,  deeper  insight  into 
Nature  with  each  day’s  work  done,  still 
eluded  him.  “ I shall  never  grow  old,”  he 
exclaimed  once,  “ as  long  as  I have  my  eyes 
to  see.”  Had  it  been  possible,  Sensier 
suggests,  he  would  have  made  of  some 
aerial  body  a chariot,  and,  bending  over  it, 
have  seized  the  grand  forms  of  the  earth, 
the  river’s  silver  in  the  entirety  of  its 
windings,  the  green  and  brown  of  the  plains 
as  a checkered  whole,  the  forest  as  a single 
green  bouquet.  And,  since  that  might  not 
be,  he  would  go  to  the  mountains,  for  there 
[ r46] 


ROUSSEAU 


Nature  appears  in  her  grandest  guise,  thence 
the  outlook  is  freest.  But  he  would  pre- 
pare his  mind  through  the  lesser  aspects  of 
Nature,  although  grand  and  primeval,  in 
order  that  the  majestic  beauty  of  the 
mountain  world  might  be  read  and  inter- 
preted aright.  So  he  went  down  in  Novem- 
ber, 1833,  to  Chailly,  on  the  edge  of  the 
Forest  of  Fontainebleau,  and  took  lodgings 
with  a peasant  woman,  la  mire  Lemoine. 

Sensier  says  that  the  forest  near  Chailly 
was  then  as  virgin  as  in  the  time  of  the  Mero- 
vingians. The  heather  and  oaks  were  its 
lords,  and  the  horror  of  solitude  was  there. 
We  have  wandered  about  it  recently:  it  is 
still  grand  with  trees  centuries  old,  and  huge 
blocks  of  sandstone,  tossed  about  in  some 
play  of  the  giants.  The  heather  still  covers 
with  a robe  of  rose  and  misty  green  the  open 
places.  But  the  wild  beauty  and  strength 
and  the  vast  solitude  of  a primeval  forest  are 
absent.  Rousseau  was  too  intoxicated  to 
work.  That  fever  was  upon  him  which 
seized  upon  Millet  and  his  friend  Jacque, 
when  they  first  came  to  Barbizon. 

He  walked  incessantly,  and  the  night 
found  him  often  amidst  the  rocks,  which, 
in  the  moonlight,  seemed  huge,  crouching 
[ 147  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


antediluvian  monsters.  “I  heard,”  he  told 
Sensier,  “the  voices  of  the  trees;  the  sur- 
prises of  their  movements.  Their  varieties 
of  form  and  even  their  peculiarity  of  attrac- 
tion toward  the  light  had  suddenly  revealed 
to  me  the  language  of  the  forest.  All  that 
world  of  flora  lived  as  mutes,  whose  signs  I 
divined,  whose  passions  I discovered.  I 
wished  to  converse  with  them  and  to  be 
able  to  say  to  myself,  through  that  other 
language,  painting,  that  I had  put  my  finger 
upon  the  secret  of  their  grandeur.” 

In  the  evenings,  in  the  peasant  home,  he 
was  genial  with  all  the  world.  Phrenology 
was  a craze  of  the  day,  and  Rousseau 
amused  himself  in  searching  out  the  apti- 
tudes of  the  men  about  him,  finding,  as  he 
wrote,  “painters,  poets,  sculptors,  diplomats, 
financiers,  and  verily  even  ministers  in  their 
natural  state  ( bourre ).”*  “A  peasant  said 
to  me : ‘ As  for  me,  in  the  first  place,  I 

must  command;  I don’t  like  to  be  opposed;  ’ 
good  for  a minister.  Another  believes  that 
the  thunderbolt  is  an  arrow  that  leaves  the 
stars  and  comes  to  strike  us,  in  order  to  talk 
a little  roughly  with  us  and  excite  us  to 
answer;  good  for  a poet.” 

* Bourre , literally  coarse  wool. 

[ *4*  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


He  remained  in  Chailly  until  February, 
1834,  and  would  have  stayed  the  winter 
through,  had  not  Ary  Scheffer  pressed  him 
to  return  to  Paris  and  deliver  a painting 
he  was  preparing  for  the  Salon,  and  had 
sold  to  the  Due  d’ Orleans  before  leaving 
for  Fontainebleau.  It  was  always  a great 
sacrifice  for  Rousseau  to  part  with  a pic- 
ture. He  was  never  satisfied  with  his 

work,  and  forever  retouching  it.  He 

brought  back  only  a few  studies  from 
Fontainebleau,  but  expected  soon  to  return 
there  again  with  a mind  calmed  and  ready 
to  receive  and  interpret. 

Meanwhile  he  made  his  preparations  for 
a trip  to  Switzerland,  intending  to  see 
everything,  and  not  to  return  until  the 
money  received  from  the  sale  of  his 
painting  was  exhausted.  Just  at  this  time 
he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Jules  Dupre, 
and  the  two  young  artists  became  at  once 
the  warmest  friends.  Dupre  almost  per- 
suaded Rousseau  to  defer  his  trip  to  the 
Alps,  making  in  its  stead  an  expedition  in 
his  company  “to  the  borders  of  the 
Bousane  or  the  Vienne,  into  the  country  of 
swamps  and  high  forests;”  but  Lorentz,  a 
comrade  from  childhood,  told  him  it  might 

[ 149  1 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


be  the  last  time  in  his  life  that  he  could 
persuade  himself  he  was  a bird,  soar  above 
the  mountains,  share  the  society  of  the 
clouds  and  eat  a bear  steak.  So  Rousseau 
decided  for  Switzerland.  A short  time 
before  starting,  the  director  of  the  royal 
museums  sent  Rousseau  an  order  for  his 
Salon  picture,  which  had  already  been  sold 
to  the  Due  d’ Orleans,  and  Rousseau  could 
proudly  reply  that  it  was  too  late. 

His  star  was  ascending  steadily  and 
rapidly;  admirers  were  multiplying  and  old 
acquaintances  eager  to  claim  him  as  friend. 
He  was  only  twenty- two  years  old,  and  life, 
with  all  its  splendid  possibilities,  ahead. 

The  friends,  Rousseau  and  Lorentz,  had 
taken  a solemn  oath  to  meet  in  Switzerland; 
Rousseau  started  first,  and  stopped  en  route 
at  la  Faucille,  a mountain  of  the  Jura 
range,  with  a wayside  inn  built  of  fir  logs 
like  the  Swiss  chalets.  He  planned  to 
remain  there  a week  while  awaiting  his 
comrade,  but  lingered  four  months.  Mont 
Blanc  had  fascinated  him,  looking  over 
from  the  distance  across  the  lake  of  Geneva, 
and  he  had  found  at  the  inn  a charming 
cavalier  of  the  court  of  Louis  Sixteenth,  a 
nobleman  with  all  the  better  qualities  of 
[ *5°] 


ROUSSEAU 


the  ancient  regime,  liberal  and  progressive 
besides.  He  loved  Nature  tenderly,  was 
brave  and  generous  to  a fault;  Homer  and 
Horace  were  his  constant  pocket-com- 
panions ; with  three  score  years  and  ten 
well  passed,  he  was  as  vigorous  in  mountain 
tramps  as  a lad  of  twenty. 

His  relations,  to  prevent  him  from  dis- 
tributing his  possessions  among  those  in 
need,  had  taken  them  away  from  him,  and 
reduced  him  to  a meagre  allowance.  He 
had  in  consequence  taken  refuge  in  the 
mountains,  where  he  could  live  without 
control  as  Nature  ordered,  worshipping 
God  and  loving  his  fellow-man  in  freedom. 
Young  Rousseau’s  fresh  way  of  interpreting 
Nature,  his  earnestness  and  enthusiasm,  won 
the  old  count’s  heart.  He  had  been  dis- 
appointed in  his  own  son;  he  adopted 
Rousseau  in  his  stead,  and  called  him  mon 
Jils,  and  Rousseau  repaid  him  with  a like 
affection.  When  the  comrade  (Lorentz) 
arrived,  gayety  and  the  abandon  of  youth 
took  possession  of  the  inn.  The  days  were 
given  to  mountain  courses ; in  the  evening 
Lorentz  sang  Musset’s  odes;  they  danced  in 
the  moonlight  or  talked  philosophy,  as  the 
mood  suggested. 


[151] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Rousseau  paints  himself  to  us  in  the 
confidences  of  a home  letter  to  his  mother. 

“My  good  Mama: 

“I  am  always  the  same  . . . always  the 
same  happy  life,  always  fresh  for  seeing, 
vigorous  for  running,  and  diligent  for  one 
end.  . . . The  Mont  Blanc  is  our  alarm  clock 
in  the  morning,  our  vis-h-vis  are  the  folk 
on  the  other  side  of  the  lake  of  Geneva, 
(8  leagues).  I could  not  say  that  we  get 
along  badly,  though  we  do  dispense  with 
the  ceremony  of  saluting  each  other  and 
saying  bon  jour  when  we  look  out  at  the 
window,  for  we  don’t  meddle  in  our 
neighbors’  affairs.  Our  sight  carries  fifty 
leagues  about  us,  and  we  are  equally 
everywhere,  although  only  occupying  the 
space  of  our  two  feet.  I am  delighted 
with  having  received  my  stretchers  in 
order  to  commence  my  view  of  the  Alps. 
I burn  with  the  desire  of  fulfilling  the 
difficult  task  of  giving  upon  canvas  an 
idea  of  the  immensity  which  surrounds 
me  in  order  to  distribute  its  benefits  to 
those  less  fortunate  than  myself.  ...  I ask 
without  scruple,  because  it  seems  to  me 
that  I have  something  to  give.  I have  so 
[ *52  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


much  confidence  in  myself,  mon  Dieu,  when 
I examine  myself.” 

He  had  chosen  as  his  great  theme  a 
picture  of  the  Alps,  and  was  busily  studying 
Mont  Blanc  under  all  atmospheric  condi- 
tions and  at  every  hour  of  the  day.  Sensier 
describes  a superb  scene  witnessed  in  Sep- 
tember. 

“The  Alps  had  veiled  themselves  under 
an  immense  black  cloud  mass,  which  held 
all  the  sky  and  the  earth;  the  thunder 
roared,  and  the  lightning  flashes  suggested, 
behind  that  gloomy  shroud,  Mont  Blanc 
always  calm,  always  august,  under  the 
insults  of  the  elements;  when  a horrible 
crash  of  thunder,  such  as  Belshazzar  must 
have  heard  on  his  last  day,  re-echoed  in  that 
vast  conflagration  of  celestial  wrath,  and, 
after  a few  minutes  of  convulsions  and 
struggles,  the  veil,  rent  and  overcome,  lifted 
and  fled  away ; then  the  Alps  appeared, 
virgins  of  light,  radiant  against  a blue  sky, 
blue  as  the  dreams  of  paradise  cannot 
imagine.”  The  three  friends,  who  had 
been  silent  for  a long  time,  cried  out  with 
all  their  might : “ Vive  Dieu , vive  Dieu , 

vive  le  grand,  artiste  /”  Rousseau  painted, 
[ *53  1 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


as  a souvenir  of  this  scene,  his  canvas 
— “View  of  the  Chain  of  Mont  Blanc 
during  a Tempest.”  He  also  made  a study 
of  the  inn  after  a night  of  snow  and  frost, 
and  this  hung  above  his  bed  his  life 
through. 

Rousseau’s  conduct  had  excited  grave 
suspicions.  La  Faucille  is  not  far  from  the 
Swiss  frontier.  A young  fellow  had  been 
seen  prowling  about  in  the  most  unseason- 
able times  and  out-of-the-way  places,  always 
noting  down  something  and  making  sketches. 
The  sub-prefect  of  Gex,  a French  village 
near  by,  thought  the  matter  needed  investi- 
gation. So  this  worthy  official,  M.  de 
Montrond,  presented  himself  at  the  inn  to 
examine  the  travellers  and  their  baggage. 
Lorentz  treated  him  courteously,  and,  by 
way  of  a flourish,  turned  a triple  hand 
spring,  thereafter  offering  his  arm  as  to  a 
grande  dame , and  escorting  Monsieur  to  the 
room  where  his  comrade  was  madly  at 
work.  Rousseau  received  his  guest  some- 
what coldly,  but  invited  him  to  be  seated. 
Unfortunately  the  one  chair  of  the  room 
had  vanished.  A light  dawned  in  the 
worthy  official’s  mind,  and  he  proposed  a 
pipe  for  better  understanding. 

[ *54] 


ROUSSEAU 


Some  time  later,  as  guests  of  M.  de 
Montrond,  they  witnessed  from  the  balcony 
of  his  official  residence  an  imposing  spec- 
tacle, the  descent  of  the  flocks  from  the 
high  mountain  pastures  at  the  approach  of 
winter.  “ A ruminant  nation  emerges 
from  the  heights  of  the  snowy  peaks,  and 
spreads  itself  down  the  slopes  to  the  lowest 
pastures,  resembling  the  precious  stones  of  a 
jewel  box  that  a Polyphemus  would  throw 
out  of  his  cavern.  The  caravan  descends 
grave  and  slow,  invades  the  ravines,  winds 
around  the  rocks,  glides  under  the  high 
arches  of  the  firs.  . . . This  migration, 
of  a Biblical  majesty,  continues  for  days 
and  nights ; they  hear  it  still  in  the 
vagueness  of  the  fog,  and  the  horn  of  the 
herdsmen,  the  lowing  of  the  cows  and  the 
tinkling  of  the  bells,  sound  like  the  chords 
of  a pastoral  symphony.” 

After  visiting  the  Saint-Bernard,  they 
returned  to  Paris  in  December,  1834. 
Rousseau  had  brought  back  a large  number 
of  studies  and  at  once  set  to  work  to  prepare 
a picture  for  the  Salon.  He  chose  for  his 
theme  the  “Descent  of  the  Cattle.”  His 
own  atelier  was  too  cramped  for  a canvas  of 
the  size  he  wished  to  paint  and  Ary  Scheffer 
[ i55  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


loaned  him  an  atelier.  The  work  was  ready 
in  a few  months  and  was  offered  to  the 
jury  of  the  Salon  of  1836.*  They  refused 
it.  Ary  Scheffer,  indignant,  hung  it  on  the 
walls  of  his  own  atelier  and  invited  all  the 
art  world  to  come  and  see  it.  Jules  Dupre 
considered  it  an  extraordinary  creation. 
Rousseau  had,  through  inexperience,  fol- 
lowing Ary  Scheffer’s  suggestions,  used 
pigments  which  have  since  almost  destroyed 
the  painting.  But,  from  the  stir  occasioned 
by  the  action  of  the  jury,  from  Sensier’s 
description,  and  from  what  we  know  of 
Rousseau  at  the  time,  it  is  clear  that,  what- 
ever may  have  been  its  immaturity,  he  had 
put  into  it  all  the  glory  and  the  strength  of 
his  artist  springtime. 

The  jury  of  that  period  was  an  irrespon- 
sible body,  its  members  holding  office  for 
life.  It  consisted  of  the  fourth  class  of  the 
Institute,  composed  of  painters,  sculptors, 
architects,  engravers  and  musicians.  Rous- 
seau, in  some  way,  it  would  seem,  either 
through  his  social  intimacy  with  a group  of 
young  artists  and  writers  of  revolutionary 
tendencies,  or  because  of  the  prominence 

*The  Salon  opened  at  that  time  in  January,  and  works  of  art 
intended  for  exhibition  had  to  be  sent  in  October  or  November  of 
the  preceding  year. 


[156] 


ROUSSEAU 


given  to  his  work  as  the  embodiment  of  a 
new  school  ideal,  or  for  some  deeper  and 
unknown  reason,  had  incurred  the  personal 
hostility  of  the  ruling  powers  in  the  art 
world,  and  they  had  determined  to  crush 
him.  He  and  his  friends  knew  beforehand 
that  no  picture  of  his  would  be  accepted 
at  the  Salon,  and  none  was  admitted  until 
after  the  revolution  of  1848  which  did 
away  with  the  old  jury. 

The  year  1836  was  thus  a turning  point 
in  Rousseau’s  life.  Since  the  state  will  com- 
mand nothing  of  him,  nor  the  Salon  admit 
his  pictures,  those  great  creations  whereof 
he  had  dreamed,  must  be  given  up  for  a 
time ; for  they  demand  large  canvases — the 
Salon  for  their  proper  exhibition,  and  the 
state  or  a princely  amateur  as  purchaser. 
So  he  turned  from  the  mountains  to  the 
forest  he  had  already  learned  to  love,  went 
down  to  Barbizon  and  established  himself  at 
Pere  Ganne’s  inn,  lodging  in  a peasant’s 
house  near  by. 

The  innkeepers  of  the  artist  towns  of  the 
forest,  Barbizon,  Marlotte,  Grez,  etc.,  divide 
their  dining-room  walls  into  wooden  panels, 
and  on  these,  as  well  as  on  cupboard  doors  and 
everything  paintable,  the  artist  guests  exercise, 
[ *57  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


in  idle  hours,  their  talents.  Pere  Ganne’s 
inn  has  disappeared,  but  its  panels,  and 
cupboard  doors,  have  been  transported  to 
the  garden  of  the  new  Hotel  of  the  Artists, 
kept  by  his  son-in-law  at  the  entrance  to 
the  forest.  There  you  will  see  more  of 
Rousseau’s  work  than  of  any  other  of  the 
famous  guests  of  that  Barbizon  hostlery,  a 
charming  panel  of  Corot,  but  nothing  of 
Millet. 

Rousseau  met  Aligny  and  Diaz  at  Bar- 
bizon. During  the  day  he  worked  in  the 
forest,  especially  in  the  gorges  of  Apremont. 
In  the  evening  he  traced  in  ink  the  series  of 
sketches  from  Nature,  which  he  was  prepar- 
ing as  a study  of  the  forest.  Diaz  was  carried 
away  by  Rousseau’s  talent.  When  Rousseau 
started  for  a tramp  in  quest  of  a theme  for 
his  brush,  Diaz  followed,  keeping  always  at 
a respectful  distance.  Where  Rousseau  set 
up  his  easel  there  Diaz  might  be  found,  a 
few  paces  away,  painting  a mossy  rock  or  a 
tree  trunk,  but  not  venturing  to  speak.  At 
last,  one  day,  Diaz  went  forward  and  asked 
Rousseau  to  tell  him  the  secret  of  his  wizard 
coloring.  Rousseau  received  him  with  open- 
heartedness, and  that,  says  Sensier,  was  the 
point  of  departure  of  his  (Diaz’s)  true  talent. 
[158] 


The  Gorges  of  cApremont — Study 


• R B I Z O N DAYS 

nours,  their  talents..  Pere  Ganne’s 
disappeared,  but  its  panels,  and 
doors,  have  been  transported  to 
of  the  new  Hotel  of  the  Artists, 
t b\  on-in-law  at  the  entrance  to 
forest  There  you  will  see  more  of 
■ iu’s  - than  of  any  other  of  the 
guests  of  that  Barbizon  hostlery,  a 
ch  anel  ot  Corot,  but  nothing  of 

Millet 

\Hijny  and  Diaz  at  Bar- 
- worked  in  the 

"\o 

sketches  irom  Nature,  which  tic  was  pi cpaz- 
ing  as  a study  of  the  forest  Diaz  was  carried 

JiW&Y  tlV  ] ; & f T 

lie  tor 
always  at 
. e Rousseau  set 
' . » s easel  Diaz  ought  be  found,  a 

cw  paces  o.  . tainting  a mossy  rock  or  a 
tree  trim  l ot  venturing  to  speak.  At 

’art,  ■ az  v cut  forward  and  asked 

ell  him  the  secret  of  his  wizard 
nisseau  cceived  him  with  open- 
'd ness,  and  that,  says  Sensier,  was  the 
departure  of  his  (Diaz’s)  true  talent. 


ROUSSEAU 


“Speak  of  it  to  Diaz,  whose  beard  has 
whitened  with  work  and  pain,  and  you  will 
see  his  Castilian  face  light  up,  as  at  the 
souvenir  of  a great  chieftain  who  led  him  to 
victory,  and  you  will  feel  his  heart  expand 
at  the  memory  of  Rousseau.” 

The  horizon  was  darkening  in  many 
quarters  for  Rousseau;  his  mother,  passion- 
ately loved,  died  in  1837;  the  blow  aimed 
at  her  son  had  struck  her  too;  his  father’s 
financial  position  became  embarrassed  through 
his  lavish  generosity.  The  years  that  follow, 
until  the  revolution  of  1 848,  are  a season  of 
severe  discipline  for  Rousseau.  It  is  doubt- 
ful whether  he  could  have  held  himself 
strong,  with  undiminished  creative  force, 
had  it  not  been  for  Jules  Dupre.  For  he 
was,  on  the  art  side,  supersensitive  to 
criticism,  pitiless  in  his  self-demands,  and 
merciless  in  his  condemnation  of  work  re- 
garded, often  morbidly,  as  imperfect. 

He  once  said  to  Sensier,  pointing  to  a 
painting, — “The  Farm” — upon  which  he 
had  worked  for  years : “ Do  you  see  that 

corner  of  canvas  there,  large  as  the  hand, 
does  it  not  seem  to  you  that  it  far  surpasses 
in  intensity,  in  clearness,  in  expression, 
the  rest  of  the  canvas?”  “Yes,  without  any 
[ *59  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


doubt.”  “Well,  then,  all  the  rest  must 
pass  under  the  control  of  that  little  centre; 
all  that  which  surrounds  it  submit  itself  to 
that  diapason  of  light  and  the  whole  of 
the  picture  be  as  charged  with  life  as  that 
which  you  see  there.  Must  we  not  in- 
cessantly lift  ourselves,  surpass  ourselves,  in 
this  terrible  profession  of  painter?”  “But, 
Rousseau,”  objected  Sensier,  “with  your 
reasoning,  an  artist  would  consume  his  life 
upon  one  picture.”  “What  of  that!  Yes,  a 
man  ought  to  be  courageous  enough,  loyal 
enough,  and  rich  enough,  not  to  produce  but 
one  prodigious  work,  in  order  that  this  work 
should  be  a chef -ct  oeuvre,  and  glorify  the 
man  in  his  creation.  And,  furthermore,  a 
great  painter  is  only  resplendent  through  a 
unique  work.  Michelangelo  through  his 
‘Last  Judgment,’  Rembrandt  through  his 
‘Night  Guard,’  Correggio  through  his 
‘Antiope,’  Rubens  through  his  ‘Descent 
from  the  Cross,’  Poussin  through  his 
‘Diogenes,’  Gericault  through  his  ‘Medusa;’ 
all  that  they  create  thereafter  are  always 
the  children  of  giants,  but  inferior  to 
their  elders.  If  I could  have  my  wish,  I 
would  be  a millionaire  for  nothing  else  save 
to  effect  the  genesis  of  a single  and  unique 
[ 160  1 


ROUSSEAU 


picture,  to  consecrate  myself  thereto  and 
to  find  my  pleasure  therein,  to  suffer  and 
joy  in  it,  until,  content  with  my  work, 
after  years  of  trial,  I could  sign  it  and  say: 
‘ There  my  powers  stop  and  there  my  heart 
ceases  to  beat;’  the  rest  of  my  life  would 
be  passed  in  making  designs,  in  painting  for 
my  relaxation,  studies  which  would  be  only 
flowers  thrown  upon  the  work  whereof  I 
would  be  content.” 

Seeing  him  absorbed  at  the  end  of  a day, 
Sensier  asked:  “Well,  Rousseau,  are  you 
content  with  your  day?”  “Ah,  my  dear 
friend,”  he  answered,  “never  is  a day  long 
enough,  never  is  night  short  enough;  have 
you  ever  thought  of  that  vain  fellow,  that 
impudent  monsieur , who  is  called  Pygmalion, 
so  satisfied  with  his  own  work  that  he  fell 
in  love  with  it  ? I should  like  to  know  that 
presumption.  It  must  be  a crushing  happi- 
ness, but  I shall  never  attain  thereto.” 

Sensier  tells  how  Dupre  saved  at  least  one 
canvas,  “ Border  of  the  Forest,”  which 
Rousseau,  morbidly  critical,  was  about  to 
injure  by  overpainting,  or  destroy  altogether, 
by  urging  him  to  turn  it  face  to  the  wall 
and  give  it  a long  month’s  lease  of  life. 
When  the  month  had  expired,  he  examined 
[ 161  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


it  long  and  searchingly  in  Dupre’s  presence, 
finally  exclaiming:  “Well,  I am  going  to 

sign  it;  it  is  finished.” 

On  the  human  side,  Rousseau’s  nature 
was  rich  indeed  in  its  social  capacities  and 
powers  of  enjoyment.  Pierre  Millet,  brother 
of  Francois,  says:  “One  could  not  be  near 
Rousseau  and  not  love  him.”  Yet,  as  seen 
in  the  biography  of  his  friend,  Sensier,  he 
was  one  who  peculiarly  needed  companion- 
ship. 

Both  of  an  age,  Rousseau  and  Dupre  be- 
came as  brothers  in  their  friendship.  What- 
ever may  have  been  Rousseau’s  counter  gift, 
we  know  that  Dupre  gave  to  him  cheerful- 
ness and  courage,  and  was,  for  all  the  time 
of  their  comradeship,  a helpful  balance 
wheel  in  his  troubled  existence.  To  unite 
in  a close  alliance  the  artists,  whom  the 
jury  had  put  under  its  ban,  Dupre  gave 
frugal  fortnightly  dinners,  at  which  Ary 
Scheffer,  Decamps,  Eugene  Delacroix, 
Barye,  Chenavart  and  Rousseau  were  pres- 
ent. Ary  Scheffer,  though  not  among  the 
outcasts,  was  generously  the  most  outspoken 
in  his  criticism. 

The  brother  artists  were  weary  of  the 
Paris  world  and  eager  to  live  somewhere 

[ 162  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


together,  where  they  needed  but  to  cross 
the  threshold  to  find  Nature  and  could  for- 
get all  about  Salons.  So  in  1841  they 
went  to  the  native  country  of  Dupre’s 
parents,  to  a little  village  Monsoult,  on  the 
borders  of  the  forest  of  Isle-Adam.  Their 
studios  were  door  to  door,  Madame  Dupre, 
Jules’s  mother,  presided  over  the  home,  and 
the  days  interlinked  themselves  as  the  lines 
in  an  idyl.  In  1843,  *n  Paris>  they  had 
studios  side  by  side;  neither  ever  went  out 
for  an  evening  without  the  other  and  no 
invitation  was  accepted  that  did  not  in- 
clude both. 

In  the  following  year,  they  went  south 
to  explore  the  barren  heaths  of  Gascony, 
of  whose  picturesqueness  alluring  reports 
had  come  to  them.  After  passing  Bor- 
deaux and  Mont-de-Marsan,  “ they  visited 
those  strange  sandy  countries,  where  the 
aborigines  take  care  of  their  flocks,  mounted 
upon  stilts,  where  for  leagues  and  hours 
one  only  sees  dunes  and  sand  plains,  only 
vegetation,  which  is  neither  grass  nor 
lichen,  seeking  to  cover  the  ground  with 
its  clutching  creepers.  . . . They  descended 
to  Peyrehorade  (Pierre  who  rolls),  a charm- 
ing little  city,  which  seemed  to  them  a 
[163] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


specimen  of  those  happy  nooks  where  one 
lives  upon  the  blue  of  heaven  and  the  mur- 
mur of  the  water ; from  there  to  Tartas, 
thence  to  Begars — a happy  country  of  woods 
and  warmth;  everything  pushes  forth  there 
with  the  vigor  of  the  tropics,  melons  climb 
the  trees,  lemons  and  orange  trees  grow  as 
robust  and  fresh  as  our  apples,  in  company 
with  oaks  as  majestic  as  those  of  Fontaine- 
bleau. The  dwellings  of  rough  wood  and 
thatch  are  built  under  the  shadow  of  the 
oaks  and  even  in  their  branches.  Man 
there  loves  the  tree,  which  protects  him 
from  the  wind  and  sand.  . . . Finally,  close 
to  the  forest,  through  the  maritime  pines, 
appears  the  Gulf  of  Gascony,  the  wave  blue 
as  a sapphire  which,  without  wrath  and 
without  obstacle,  arrives,  calm  and  strong, 
from  the  shores  of  America.” 

There  Rousseau  began  work  on  two 
paintings,  “The  Farm”  and  “The  Village 
Bakery,”  which,  with  a third,  “ The  Vil- 
lage,” were  to  occupy  him  the  rest  of  his 
life,  and  there  the  friends  struggled  in  vain 
five  months  with  the  constant  fathomless 
blue  of  the  southern  sky.  “ What  man 
touches,  he  can  become  master  of,”  Dupre 
said,  “ but  to  paint  that  sky  without  clouds, 
[ 164] 


The  Farm — Sketch 


. 

. 

v 7.  of  woOdw-w 

cs,  melons  climb 

!‘s  grow  a?  ' 
scs,  in  company 

ood  and  ;- 

. ik  un  er  tht  ha  * c t be 

branches, 

■ 

r *iTC-  . - 

■ 

ul  began  work  on  two 

Village, 

third/  11  The  Vil- 

•e  tp  t u it  tbfc  rest  of  his 

■ 

' ■■  ■ ■ . W VI 

. 

. y without  cloiK: 


ROUSSEAU 


that  well  of  light,  is  as  hopeless  a task  as  it 
would  be  to  sound  its  depths.”  They  gave 
it  up  at  last,  put  their  knapsacks  on  their 
backs  and  visited  on  foot  a part  of  the 
Pyrenees,  traversing  the  Basque  country ; 
but  they  had  sworn,  “ by  the  oaks  of  Begars 
and  by  the  blue  ocean,  to  meet  every  spring 
at  Whitsuntide  on  the  square  of  the 
village  of  Begars,  in  order  again  to  start 
forth  for  the  discovery  of  the  azure,  the 
blue  without  limit,  in  its  immaterial 
essence.” 

But  the  times  became  harder.  Rousseau 
had  often,  between  1837  and  1840,  revisited 
Barbizon  and  lingered  there  on  into  the 
winter,  after  all  others  had  left.  He  allowed 
himself  therefore  to  be  persuaded  now,  un- 
der the  tranquil  charm  of  the  forest,  that  it 
was  not  well  for  man  to  see  more  than  once 
in  his  life  such  agitating  spectacles  as  the 
Basque  country  and  the  Pyrenees  offered. 
One  of  his  favorite  forest  haunts  was  Belle- 
croix,  a region  of  rocks,  heather  and  low 
trees,  overlooking  the  valley  of  the  Solle. 
A few  twisted,  dwarfed  trunks  stand  there 
to-day,  the  decrepit  survivors  perhaps  of  a 
weird,  gnarled  forest  of  Rousseau’s  time. 
Rousseau  said  to  Sensier,  “ Ah,  silence  is 
[*6S] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


golden  ; when  I was  at  my  observatory  of 
Bellecroix,  I did  not  dare  to  move,  for  the 
silence  opened  to  me  the  course  of  discov- 
eries. The  family  of  the  forest  then  be- 
stirred itself.  It  is  the  silence  which  has 
permitted  me,  immovable  as  I was  as  a tree 
trunk,  to  see  the  stag  in  his  lair  and  at  his 
toilet,  to  observe  the  habits  of  the  field  rat, 
of  the  otter  and  the  lizard,  those  fantastic 
amphibii.  He  who  lives  in  the  silence  be- 
comes the  centre  of  a world  ; for  a moment 
I would  have  been  able  to  believe  myself 
the  sun  of  a little  creation,  if  my  study  had 
not  recalled  to  me  that  I had  so  much  diffi- 
culty in  aping  on  my  canvas  a poor  tree  or 
a tuft  of  heather.” 

Rousseau  loved  the  trees  as  individuals. 
For  him  each  had  a distinct  character,  and 
temperament  and  he  would  fain  know  each 
one  apart.  Thus  he  could  come  close  to 
the  heart  of  that  great  community  we  call 
the  forest  and,  after  years  perhaps,  his  brush 
would  be  able  to  interpret  to  man  the 
thought  and  sentiment  that  live  within 
trunk  and  branches  and  disclose  themselves 
in  the  outreaching  of  arms  to  the  sun,  in 
every  movement,  in  every  silence. 

In  September,  1867,  two  months  before 

[166] 


A Sketch 


' 

■ 

x then  he- 
'silence  which  has 
h;  as  i was  as  a.,  tree' 


tlhk,  tC  •.  ■ s ;e 

• k-t„  to  ■:•  -v  ti:  - ah  c 
'■■  • a d t 

o lives- in  t ' ice  be 

i i 


is  lair  and  at  his 
the  Held  rat, 
,e  fantastic 


a moment 
myself 


s\j^Z 

a tuft  of  heather/ 
Rousseau  ’ c! 

For  hi 


meet,  in  t 


K 

• , and,- 
know  each- 
come  close  to 

m unity  we  call 
perhaps  hi;  brush 
■ r]  • . : - ■ the 

. 

^ mom 


/ 


ROUSSEAU 


his  death,  when  already  half  paralyzed,  he 
took  a ride  with  Sensier  to  look  once  more 
at  the  heather.  “ Pointing  to  the  Sully,  a 
giant  of  the  wood,  he  said : ‘ One  winter’s 
day  I saw  it  covered  with  snow,  white  as  a 
warrior  of  Ossian.  It  extended  its  arms  like 
an  old  bard,  a branch  fell  at  my  feet  and 
might  have  killed  me.  It  would  have  been 
a beautiful  death,  there  in  the  heart  of  the 
forest,  killed  by  an  oak  and  perhaps  forgot- 
ten upon  the  heath  for  years.  Do  you 
see  all  those  beautiful  trees  there  ? I 
sketched  them  all  thirty  years  ago  ; I have 
had  all  their  portraits.  Look  at  that  beech 
there,  the  sun  lights  it  up  and  makes  of  it 
a marble  column,  a column  that  has  mus- 
cles, limbs,  hands  and  a fair  skin,  white  and 
pallid,  as  that  of  the  Hamadryads.  . . . See 
the  modest  green  of  the  heath  and  its  plants, 
rosy,  amaranthine,  which  distil  honey  for 
the  bees  and  fragrance  for  the  butterflies. 
The  sun  lights  them  up  and  gives  them  a 
diapason  of  extraordinary  color.  Ah,  the 
sun,  it  is  the  Lyre  of  Orpheus,  it  makes 
everything  move,  feel,  attract,  it  makes  the 
stones  eloquent ! ’”  When  on  his  dying 
couch,  he  said  : “ I watch  for  the  ray,  which 
traverses  the  poplars  and  comes  to  me.  It 
C 167  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


brings  me  still  the  good  odor  of  the  leaves 
and  the  cry  of  the  insects.  I have  still  to 
learn  and  to  profit.” 

Rousseau’s  long  absences  from  Paris  only 
aggravated  the  situation  produced  by  the 
hostile  attitude  of  the  jury.*  Dupre,  who 
was  always  the  elder  brother  in  their  coun- 
cils, decided  therefore  that  they  must  show 
themselves  in  Paris  and  make  a brave  ap- 
pearance to  attract  buyers.  So  they  hired, 
at  2 Place  Pigalle,  two  fine  studios,  with  each 
a suite  of  rooms  attached,  on  the  first  floor 
of  a building  constructed  for  painters.  The 
young  militant  school  gathered  there  and  it 
was  there  also  that  Sensier  made  Rousseau’s 
intimate  acquaintance. 

Rousseau’s  finances  were,  at  this  time, 
very  straitened.  Sensier  says  he  had  scarcely 
money  enough  “ to  keep  him  in  tobacco.” 
His  art-outlook  too  was  dark.  No  ama- 
teurs came  near  him,  art  dealers  scarce 
ventured  to  hang  his  paintings  in  their  win- 
dows. The  Salon  condemnation  had  borne 
its  fruit.  Dupre  exhibited  two  of  his  com- 
rade’s canvases  in  his  own  atelier  and,  after 
infinite  discussion,  disposed  of  both  for  six 

* In  1845-6  he  was  again  for  a long  time  at  Isle-Adam  with 
Dupre. 

[168] 


ROUSSEAU 


hundred  francs.  Sensier,  writing  in  1871, 
says  that  42,000  francs  had  been  offered  for 
them.  The  friends  made  Millet’s  acquaint- 
ance, but  their  poverty  seemed  luxury  to 
poor  Millet,  and  he  drew  back  into  his 
isolation. 

The  following  year,  1847,  Rousseau 
became  engaged  to  one  whom  he  loved 
deeply,  who  was  worthy  of  him  and  re- 
turned his  love.  The  engagement  was 
broken.  Sensier  will  not  lift  the  veil.  May 
we  read  between  the  lines,  Rousseau’s  pov- 
erty, dark  future  and  sensitive  pride?  He 
fled  to  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau,  walking 
incessantly,  that  in  fatigue  he  might  lull 
sorrow  to  sleep.  He  hired  from  a Barbizon 
peasant,  for  a brief  season,  a tiny  thatched 
cottage  at  the  end  of  his  garden,  two  rooms 
and  a loft,  and  remained  there  the  rest  of 
his  life. 

The  revolution  of  1848  created  a short- 
lived republic.  One  of  the  first  acts  of  the 
new  government  was  to  satisfy  the  artists. 
A painter,  M.  Jeanron,  was  named  director 
of  the  Museum,  and  in  lieu  of  the  old  Salon 
and  its  irresponsible  jury,  it  was  resolved  to 
accept  everything  offered  and  to  allow  the 
entire  body  of  artists  to  elect  a commission 
[ i69  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


for  hanging  and  awards.  Rousseau  did 
not  exhibit,  but  both  Dupre  and  himself 
were  named  members  of  the  commission. 
Ledru-Rollin,  the  Minister  of  the  Interior, 
at  the  suggestion  of  the  new  director  of  the 
Museum  and  of  Charles  Blanc,  director  of 
the  Beaux  Arts,  went  in  person  to  the 
studios  of  Rousseau  and  Dupre  and  ordered 
of  each  a canvas  at  four  thousand  francs,  a 
sum  then  regarded  as  enormous.  This  act 
was  intended  as  a public  reparation  to  the 
artists  who  had  been  persecuted  by  the  old 
regime. 

It  would  be  natural  to  expect  that  the 
unlucky  star  which  had  dominated  Rous- 
seau’s firmament  for  twelve  years  would 
set  now  and  fortune  make  amends  by  un- 
usual graciousness.  But  this  was  not  to 
be.  How  much  his  lack  of  balance,  how 
much  the  survival  of  the  old  hostility 
to  him,  as  an  innovator  in  art  matters,  or 
as  one  affiliated  with  Thore  and  other 
political  radicals,  contributed  to  this  result, 
it  is  impossible  for  us  to  determine. 

In  1 849  Dupre,  who  had  not  exhibited, 
received  the  Cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 
Rousseau’s  three  pictures  were  badly  hung 
and  he  was  awarded  only  a first  medal. 

[ 170  ] 


Forest  of  Fontainebleau — Setting  Sun 


; ) d . w ards.  K o os  sea  u . ■ d 

at  both'  Duprd  and  himself 
members  of  the  comm  i x sun 

* 

Charles  Blanc,  director  of 
;nt  in  person  to  the 
Dupre  and  ordered 

« riVas  housand  francs,  a 

v Red  as  -'us.  This  act 

: :c  r<  x :r  • die 

......  V/. odd. 


as  i0- 

c . But 

5 not  to 

. balance,  how 

le  old  hoi-  r dy 

art  nla  te  r,  jr 

ted  >’  h 

Tiiore  . and  ocher 

u sd  to  this  result, 

. • <.x  i*  terming.  - 

•R  not  exhibited 

‘ os  the  Legion  ’ ; ’ 

».  pit  vs  were  h-.dijr 


ROUSSEAU 


He  said:  “The  simplest  field-flower  would 
suit  my  button-hole  better,  but  I feel  my- 
self wronged  ; I am  not  understood.”  This 
difference  in  awards  led  to  an  estrangement 
between  the  two  friends,  the  fault  being,  so 
far  as  we  can  discover,  wholly  on  Rousseau’s 
side.  Two  years  later  he  had  a somewhat 
similar  experience,  Diaz  being  decorated 
and  he  remaining  without  recompense. 
Diaz  conducted  himself  in  royal  fashion. 
At  the  official  dinner  of  the  artists  who  had 
received  the  decoration  he  rose  and,  in  the 
presence  of  the  heads  of  the  Administra- 
tion, proposed  the  toast,  “To  Theodore 
Rousseau,  our  forgotten  master.” 

The  following  year,  1852,  brought  an 
official  reparation.  Rousseau  had  resolved 
not  to  exhibit  and  the  time  for  sending  in 
canvases  was  past.  The  Director  of  the 
Museums  came  to  his  studio  in  person  and 
pleaded  with  him  to  be  allowed  to  take 
some  of  his  canvases  and  hang  them  on  the 
walls  of  the  Salon.  Rousseau  yielded  and 
was  at  last  decorated  with  the  Cross  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  This  gave  him  a stand- 
ing before  the  public  and  was  the  beginning 
of  a brief  period  of  fame  and  abundance. 

Sensier  describes  Rousseau  in  his  prime, 
[ 17I  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


“He  was  of  middle  stature,  very  vigorous 
and  made  for  walking ; his  head  was 
olympian  and  strikingly  resembled  Shake- 
speare’s, his  eye  kind  and  fine,  his  look  that 
of  one  who  fears  nothing  because  there  is 
nothing  to  fear,  his  hair  black  and  curly, 
his  forehead  proud  in  its  tranquillity  and 
strength.” 

His  conception  of  the  relation  of  Art  and 
Nature  is  well  expressed  in  his  reply  to 
Guizot.  The  Due  de  Broglie  had  ordered 
of  Rousseau  a painting  of  the  Chateau  de 
Broglie,  intending  it  as  a souvenir  for  his 
friend  and  colleague  in  the  Ministry,  M. 
Guizot.  Madame  Guizot  had  died  there, 
and  Guizot  urged  Rousseau  to  make  the 
painting  grave  and  sad,  and,  as  far  as  possi- 
ble, an  interpreter  of  his  own  feelings. 
Rousseau  replied : 

“ If  my  painting  depicts  faithfully  and 
without  over-refinement  the  simple  and 
true  character  of  the  place  you  have  fre- 
quented, if  I succeed  ...  in  giving  its  own 
life  to  that  world  of  vegetation,  then  you 
will  hear  the  trees  moaning  under  the  win- 
ter wind,  the  birds  that  call  their  young 
and  cry  after  their  dispersion ; you  will  feel 
the  old  chateau  tremble ; it  will  tell  you 
[ I72  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


that,  as  the  wife  you  loved,  it  too 
will  . . . disappear  and  be  reborn  in  multi- 
ple forms.  If,  in  line,  I have  thrown  upon 
my  canvas  the  mighty  breath  of  the  crea- 
tion, which  engenders  to  destroy,  I shall 
have  interpreted  your  thought.  . . . Our  art 
is  only  capable  of  attaining  the  pathetic 
you  wish  to  refind  in  it  by  the  sincerity 
of  its  portraiture.  . . . One  does  not  copy 
with  mathematical  precision  what  one 
sees,  but  one  feels  and  interprets  a real 
world,  all  of  whose  fatalities  hold  you  fast 
bound.” 

Rousseau  desired  to  be  a millionaire,  in 
order  to  devote  his  entire  life  to  one  paint- 
ing. An  opportunity,  akin  to  this,  was 
provided  for  him  by  Frederic  Hartmann, 
who  ordered  and  paid  for  three  paintings,* 
allowing  Rousseau  all  the  time  he  wished 
for  their  execution.  He  was  busied  upon 
them  during  fifteen  years.  Death  alone 
put  an  end  to  the  travail  and  permitted  the 
purchaser  to  claim  his  canvases. 

Sensier  says,  “ They  passed  through 
phases,  now  marvellous,  now  lamentable. 
Millet  and  I were  the  only  ones  permitted 
to  catch  a glimpse  of  them.  Indeed,  at 

* “ The  Farm,”  “The  Village  Bakery  ” and  “The  Village.” 

[ *73  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


times,  he  hid  himself  from  us,  when  the 
work  assumed  sombre  tones  and  vigorous 
accents.  Then  there  took  place  on  his 
canvases  a kind  of  aerial  tragedy,  which 
disheartened  us.  The  silhouettes  of  the  trees 
became  menacing,  the  forms  of  vegetation 
shrivelled,  the  features  of  the  landscape  be- 
came petrified  in  a dull  despair.  Rousseau 
seemed  to  be  chastising  his  work  ...  in 
return  for  his  long  labor  of  creation,  by 
condemning  it  to  the  most  lugubrious  and 
painful  metamorphoses.  Then  on  other 
days  we  saw  them  reborn,  as  limpid,  joyous 
and  scintillating  as  the  mornings  of  spring- 
time.” . . . “ ‘ The  Village  ’ was  one  of  his 
torments.  The  day  before  it  was  sent  to 
the  Salon  even  he  worked  upon  it  with  a 
fury  that  disheartened  us.  In  a single  day, 
trebly-locked  in  his  studio,  he  transformed 
the  entire  sky.  He  had  thrown  himself 
with  abandon  into  Japanese  art  and,  domi- 
nated by  those  beautiful  oriental  auroras, 
which  unite  so  well,  in  just  balance,  the 
softness  of  dawn  and  the  ardor  of  the  trop- 
ics, he  had  made  for  that  poor  hamlet  of 
Picardy,  a firmament  where  Buddha  would 
have  chosen  his  throne  of  light.  . . . Later 
he  refashioned  it  again  and  turned  back  to 
[ *74] 


ROUSSEAU 


our  melancholy  horizons,  to  our  skies  sad 
and  gray.* 

M.  Castagnary  said  of  Rousseau:  “He 
does  not  carry  us  away,  as  Francois  Millet, 
toward  the  sorrowing  epochs  of  rustic  life, 
to  reveal  their  savage  grandeur  or  gloomy 
solemnity  ...  he  does  not  transport  us  as 
Corot,  into  the  lands  of  twilight,  where  the 
light,  the  freshness  and  the  shadow  sing  an 
aerial  melody,  whose  last  notes  reach  out 
into  infinity.  No  : simple,  strong,  all  im- 
pregnated with  naturalism,  he  respects  the 
exact  relations  of  the  trees,  the  animals,  man 
and  the  sky.” 

Before  turning  the  last  pages  in  the  jour- 
nal of  Rousseau’s  artist  career,  we  must  visit 
him  in  Barbizon  in  the  home  which,  from 
1848  on,  another  shared  with  him.  A 
young  girl,  of  humble  parentage  and  poor, 
came  to  him  in  Paris  in  1848,  seeking  his 
protection.  He  sheltered  her  and  she  be- 
came his  wife.  The  relation  between  them 
was  a most  affectionate  one.  She  was  not 
his  companion  in  the  higher  life,  and  his 
friends  appear  to  have  looked  upon  her  as  a 
kind  of  chattering  magpie  and  a burden  on 

* “The  Hoar-Frost,”  a culminating  point  in  his  art,  was,  on  the 
contrary,  finished  in  eight  days. 

[ J75  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


account  of  her  ill  health,  yet  it  is  plain  that, 
to  Rousseau,  she  was  a tenderly  loved  and 
most  tenderly  cherished  child-wife.  Her 
chatter  was  refreshing  song  to  him,  what- 
ever it  may  have  been  to  his  friends. 

Sensier  is  almost  impatient  with  Rousseau 
for  that  father  and  lover  spirit,  which  the 
strong  man  showed  toward  this  weak  singer 
of  Beranger’s  chansons,  who  had  found  her 
way  into  his  home ; but  he  recognizes  the 
complete  blending  at  the  last  of  their  exist- 
ences. He  went  to  visit  them  during  their 
honeymoon  in  Saint  Martin’s  in  summer. 
“ The  little  house  was  covered  with 
clematis,  nasturtiums  and  cobeas.  One  felt 
the  presence  of  a woman  in  that  coquetry 
of  hermitage.”  Rousseau  had  found  his 
happiness  and  his  old  inspiration.  He 
spent  all  his  time  in  the  forest  and  made 
charming  studies  there.  One  of  these, 
“The  Little  Hillock  of  Jean  de  Paris,” 
contains  a picture  of  his  wife.  The  autumn 
wind  is  moving  in  the  birch  trees.  A 
young  woman,  in  a blue  dress,  is  sitting  at 
work  at  the  foot  of  a tree. 

Rousseau’s  letters  to  his  wife  are  in 
charming  contrast  with  his  usual  epistolary 
style.  He  who  is  always  serious,  restrained, 
[ 176  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


in  contrast  to  Millet,  stiff  and  cold  almost, 
becomes  free,  glad  and  merry  to  joviality. 
His  letters  for  the  first  time  sing ; not  a 
grand  epic  strain  as  Millet’s,  or  a ballad  of 
nature  as  Corot’s,  but  a light  chanson,  such 
as  those  his  wife  was  wont  to  repeat. 

“ Thou  must  get  good  round  cheeks,  for 
otherwise  I shall  use  them  all  up  for  thee 
at  once.  ...  I think  of  thee  every  moment, 
savoring  beforehand  all  the  pleasures  I shall 
have  in  leaving  the  train,  from  seeing  thy 
dear  face  calling  me  with  thine  eyes.  It’s 
idle  to  say  that  the  absent  are  at  fault ; it  is 
not  true  when  one  loves  them  from  the 
bottom  of  one’s  heart.  See,  thou  art  be- 
coming apotheosized  for  me,  thou  gainest 
every  day,  thou  hast  never  had  a fault,  thou 
hast  never  tormented  me,  not  even  on  thea- 
tre days.  . . . Thou  art,  in  fine,  such  that  I 
only  need  thy  presence  to  be  happy  all  the 
days  of  my  life.  . . . Au  revoir , my  darling 
little  one  ...  I embrace  thee  as  I love 
thee.  My  father.  Millet,  Sensier,  Daumier, 
embrace  thee ; the  whole  family,  le  bon 
Dieu,  et  le  Diable,  embrace  thee.  . . . P.  S. 
As  for  the  pheasant,  I hear  a gun-shot,  that 
must  be  the  Pere  Baudouin,*  who  is  making 


* A neighbor  who  had  promised  Rousseau  a pheasant  for  his  wife. 


[*77] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


his  first  essay.  Patience,  patience  then,  and 
enjoy  a foretaste  of  it.  Latest  News:  The 
pheasant  is  still  living,  but  they  talk  about 
bringing  a stuffed  one  from  Paris.  . . .” 

The  fat  years  had  begun  for  Rousseau. 
His  thatched  roof  was  changed  for  one  of 
tiles,  he  bought  rare  bits  of  old  faience  from 
the  peasants  and  picked  up  etchings  of 
Rembrandt,  Ostade  and  Claude  Lorrain. 
“ At  this  time  the  home  of  Rousseau  was  a 
little  hospitable  centre,  full  of  attentions 
and  charms ; the  friend  arrived  there  with- 
out other  announcement  than  his  presence. 
Rousseau  received  him  with  that  smile  and 
that  child’s  glance  which  signified,  * I ex- 
pected you.’  We  talked  painting,  Paris, 
literature,  we  hailed  Millet,  who  was 
working,  still  unknown  but  courageous  in 
his  country  atelier , we  passed  comments  upon 
the  masters,  the  setting  sun,  the  light  and 
the  longevity  of  man.  The  months  were 
years,  to-day  they  are  only  days.” 

A culminating  point  came  with  the  Uni- 
versal Exposition  of  1 8 5 5 . Rousseau  ex- 
hibited thirteen  paintings  and  won  a deci- 
sive victory,  due  however  rather  to  the 
appreciation  of  Americans  than  to  that  of 
his  own  countrymen.  Millet  had  sent  but 
[ 178  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


one  canvas,  “ The  Grafter.”  Rousseau  was 
enthusiastic  about  it.  One  day  Sensier  was 
amazed  to  learn  from  Rousseau  that  he  had 
sold  Millet’s  canvas  to  an  American  for  four 
thousand  francs.  Sensier  was  beside  him- 
self to  discover  who  this  extraordinary  in- 
dividual was  who  was  willing  to  pay  four 
thousand  francs  for  a canvas  which  would 
not  have  brought  one  thousand  in  Paris  or 
in  all  Europe.  “But  consider,”  he  said, 
“ Rousseau,  that  astonishing  man  has  been 
enlightened,  as  St.  Paul  on  his  road  to 
Damascus.  What  a rare  organization  that 
of  a being,  new  and  without  education,  who 
arrives  from  his  deserts  and  feels  himself  all 
at  once  drawn  toward  an  expression  so 
simple ! Don’t  you  see,  we  need  not 
despair  of  anything  ? ” “ Ah,  well ! my 

friend,  to-morrow  he  will  come  to  see  me, 
come,  don’t  fail.”  “The  next  day  I arrived 
at  the  house  and,  extending  his  hand,  Rous- 
seau said  in  a low  voice:  ‘Well,  here  he 

is,  he  is  here.  Yes,  it  is  I,  since  you  will 
know  it.  But  swear  to  me  that  you  will 
say  nothing  about  it.  I want  Millet  to 
believe  in  the  American,  that  will  encourage 
him  and  that  will  make  us  both  more  free, 
for  I wish  to  purchase  other  pictures  from 
[ J79] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


him/  ” Those  were  glad  days  in  the  vine- 
covered  cottage.  Rousseau,  delighted  by 
his  unexpected  good  fortune,  loved  to  gather 
his  comrades  about  his  long  poplar  table  in 
the  loft  atelier  under  the  tile  roof.  “ Diaz 
excited  the  hearty  laughter  of  Rousseau  by 
his  caprices,  as  unexpected  as  the  humorous 
explosions  of  Goya ; Daumier  was  in  the 
mood  of  Rabelais ; Barye  sparkled  with 
sarcasm  and  biting  tales  about  pedants  and 
prudhommes ; Millet  thought  no  more  of 
his  wretchedness  and  talked  about  his  Nor- 
man country  and  his  family  souvenirs.” 

But  with  1 857  the  clouds  gathered  again. 
The  Salons  were  not  favorable,  unfriendly 
criticism  became  keen  once  more,  appar- 
ently not  altogether  without  reason,  for,  to 
judge  from  Sensier’s  account,  Rousseau  was 
painting  rather  mechanically  and  work  that 
would  sell.  His  biographer  tells  also  a 
strange  story  of  the  venomous  pursuit  of  a 
Belgian  picture  dealer,  who  bought  up 
Rousseau’s  pictures  at  a high  price  and  then 
auctioned  them  off  at  a low  one  so  as  to 
make  Rousseau’s  rating  low  ! 

Fortune  did  not  smile  on  Rousseau  again 
until  1865.  During  these  years  he  was 
compelled  to  sell  at  auction  his  little  col- 
[ 180  ] 


ROUSSEAU 


lection  of  bric-a-brac,  was  burdened  with 
debt  and  constrained  on  that  account  to  re- 
visit Paris  every  month,  for  a time  every 
fortnight,  so  as  to  be  at  his  legal  domicile 
to  meet  his  creditors.  His  wife’s  health 
failed  from  nervous  weakness — she  was  pass- 
ing into  hysteria. 

In  1863  he  had  made  a second  visit  to 
la  Faucille,  thirty  years  after  the  first.  As 
before,  he  sat  facing  Mont  Blanc.  What 
memories  of  old  ambitions  and  youthful 
dreams  must  have  returned  ! The  rain  fell 
upon  him  in  torrents,  but  he  would  not 
move.  An  inflammation  of  the  lungs  re- 
sulted therefrom,  which  was  almost  fatal 
and  from  which  he  seems  to  have  never  en- 
tirely rallied.  His  friends  became  anxious 
about  him  and  plotted  for  his  relief.  One 
of  them  assumed,  as  he  supposed,  all  his 
debts,  but  unfortunately  Rousseau  had  not 
made  a full  confession.  A retreat  was  pro- 
vided for  his  wife  and  the  day  of  her  re- 
moval set.  But,  at  the  moment  of  de- 
parture, Rousseau  withdrew  his  consent. 
“ Ah,  my  dear  friend,”  he  said  to  Sensier, 
“ when  I think  that  I shall  dry  up  the 
source  of  so  many  treasures  of  tenderness,  in 
separating  myself  from  her,  from  her  who 

[ 181  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


is  but  a spoiled  child,  I feel  that  I am  very- 
unjust  to  procure  my  repose  at  the  expense 
of  her  heart.”  He  remained  steadfast  in 
his  refusal  to  the  last  hour  of  his  life. 

Rousseau’s  fortunes,  ill  and  good,  had  all 
his  life  through  much  of  the  unexpected 
about  them.  So  it  was  in  1865.  The 
Count,  Paul  DemidofF,  ordered  two  wall 
panels  of  Rousseau  at  ten  thousand  francs 
each.  Similar  orders  had  been  given  to 
Corot,  Dupre  and  Fromentin.  While  Rous- 
seau was  at  work  upon  this  commission  two 
young  picture  dealers  offered  him  one  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  for  sixty  canvases,  all 
the  old  studies  of  his  youth,  and  forty  thou- 
sand francs  additional  for  other  work  un- 
finished. In  1866  he  was  invited  to  the 
Emperor’s  court  at  Compiegne,  and  in  1 867, 
at  the  Universal  Exposition,  was  elected 
President  of  the  International  Jury,  received 
one  of  the  eight  grand  medals  of  honor,* 
sold  paintings  for  two  hundred  thousand 
francs  and  gratified  his  love  for  the  works 
of  the  old  masters  to  the  extent  of  buying 
thirty  thousand  francs’  worth  of  engravings 
at  one  sale.  Three  Expositions  were  opened 

* Four  for  France — Cabanel,  Gerome,  Meissonier,  Rousseau. 
Four  for  other  countries — Kaulbach,  Knaus,  Leys,  Ussi. 

[ 182  ] 


\ 


Landscape  with  Animals 


' 

*>d,  had  all  . 
unexpected 
■<>S-  .Th. 

sail  a t ten.  dhoi:  francs  ' 

iers  i X-  i %n  to 
\ r omentin.  Wnih  • -'is- 

?A  u«j « K Mju? 


■ . cted 
received 
• honor,*  . 

. housand 
love  he  works 

. 

, 

at  on  ons  we.  • - -Mi 


for  other  co 


ROUSSEAU 


simultaneously,  the  Universal,  that  of  the  an- 
nual Salon,  and  a third  at  the  Cercle  des  Arts. 
Rousseau  was  represented  by  a hundred  and 
twenty-four  works.  His  triumph  was 
grand  and  complete.  Hostile  criticism  was 
silenced. 

But  that  same  malevolent  influence  that 
had  dogged  his  steps  hitherto  dropped  into 
his  brimming  cup  that  which  made  its 
every  drop  bitter.  His  comrades  of  the 
jury  and  his  fellow  medallists  were  all  made 
officers  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  he,  the 
President  of  the  Jury,  was  excepted.*  It 
was  the  coup  de  grdce ; the  tension  had  been 
too  great  since  1836;  paralysis  came  upon 
him,  he  lingered,  moved  dying  about  his 
garden,  followed  by  his  hysterical  wife. 
Millet  was  constant  in  his  devotion.  The 
end  came  December  22nd,  1867,  “the 

grand  harmony  ” following  upon  the  trag- 
edy of  his  life.  J 

* His  French  comrades  of  the  Jury  were  Gerome,  Pils,  Franfais 
and  Corot.  He  was  made  Officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor  before 
his  death. 

t Two  days  before  his  death  he  said,  expecting  to  recover : 
“ There  will  be  a crisis  and  thereafter  the  grand  harmony  will  come.” 


[183] 


Antoine  Louis  Barye 


Barye 


' 

1 


, 


nowtasS.  sittoW  z 


f 


I v 


■ 


BARYE 


Barye 

Antoine  Louis  Barye  was  born  in 
Paris  September  15th,  1796.  His  father 
was  a goldsmith.  His  family  preserved  as 
souvenirs  of  his  earliest  childhood  figures  of 
animals  that  he  had  cut  out  of  paper,  and 
said  that  he  used  to  mix  pounded  brick 
with  water  and  paint  therewith  designs 
upon  the  wall.  He  was  not  sent  to  any 
lyc&e , but  at  thirteen  apprenticed  to  Founder, 
an  engraver  in  metals.  Fourrier  was  charged 
with  furnishing  the  metallic  portions  of 
the  military  equipments,  the  helmets,  gor- 
gets, eagles  and  crosses  of  honor.  The 
repousst  work  for  the  gold  snuff-boxes  which 
Napoleon  I.  was  in  the  habit  of  presenting  to 
his  brother  sovereigns  was  also  executed  there. 
Young  Barye  was  employed  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  the  molds  and  dies  for  all  classes  of 
work,  from  the  buttons  of  the  uniforms  to 
the  finest  products  of  the  goldsmith’s  art. 

The  conscription  of  1812  took  him  at 
sixteen  away  from  the  workshop,  but  for- 
tunately his  training  for  his  later  career  was 
not  thereby  altogether  interrupted.  Fie 
was  attached  at  first  to  the  topographical 
[187] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


brigade  of  the  engineering  corps  and  soon 
after  incorporated  in  a battalion  of  sappers. 
He  told  Sylvestre  that  he  “ worked  night 
and  day  on  reliefs  of  Mont  Cenis,  Cher- 
bourg and  Coblentz,  which  are  probably 
still  preserved  in  the  archives  of  the  War 
Department.”  March  30th,  1814,  as  he 
was  returning  wearied  from  a long  walk 
across  the  fields  of  Montrouge,  the  porter 
of  the  military  depot  called  out  to  him 
through  the  wicket  : “ The  army  has  left ; 
go  with  all  speed  to  rejoin  it  on  the  banks 
of  the  Loire.”  Montrouge  is  at  the  gates 
of  Paris.  Barye  was  penniless  and  thus  un- 
able to  follow  the  army  in  its  retreat.  So 
he  returned  to  his  father’s  house. 

The  capitulation  of  Paris  freed  him  from 
military  service,  and  he  resumed  his  work 
as  engraver,  but  he  said  : “ I was  tormented 
by  my  vocation  for  statuary.  I applied 
myself  with  infinite  zeal  to  drawing  and 
modeling,  but,  as  I was  not  one  to  stir 
about,  I neither  knew  how  to  find  a master 
nor  how  to  arrange  matters  so  as  to  live  as 
student.”  He  solved  the  problem  by  mak- 
ing his  handicraft  supply  the  wherewithal 
for  his  studies  and  entered  in  December, 
1816,  the  studio  of  Bosio.  Bosio  was  a 

[188] 


B A R Y E 


conventional  worker  of  the  old  school, 
without  originality  or  strength.  The  eques- 
trian statue  of  Louis  XIV.  of  the  Place  des 
Victoires,  and  the  four-horse  chariot  of  the 
Arc  du  Carrousel,  show  his  incapacity  for 
monumental  work.  He  was  not,  however, 
without  a certain  fine  feeling  in  his  treat- 
ment of  the  nude,  as  the  “ Hyacinthe  ” of  the 
Louvre  Galleries  shows.  Barye  had  come 
to  his  studio  in  order  to  learn  the  rudiments 
of  the  sculptor’s  art,  and  to  this  extent  only 
is  he  probably  Bosio’s  debtor. 

Three  months  later,  in  March,  1817,  he 
entered  the  studio  of  the  painter  Gros, 
and  apparently  for  a time  frequented  both 
studios.  Gros  was  a pupil  of  David,  and 
the  author  of  several  large  canvases  now  in 
the  Louvre.  Barye’s  biographers  agree  in 
attributing  to  Gros  more  influence  over  him 
than  Bosio  exercised.  Gros  was  an  en- 
thusiast, full  of  energy  and  a strong  worker. 
Arsene  Alexandre  says  of  him : “ Classicist 
by  conviction,  the  first  of  the  romanticists 
by  temperament,  he  exercised  the  same  in- 
fluence over  all  the  great  painters  who  went 
forth  from  his  hands.  They  observed  what 
he  did  and  listened  as  little  as  possible  to 
what  he  said.” 


[189] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Guillaume  says:  “Barye  appeared  in  the 
midst  of  a passion  of  renewal  which  began 
to  seize  upon  the  French  school.  The  study 
of  history  and  the  knowledge  of  foreign 
literatures  were  enlarging  the  field  of  inspi- 
ration. With  several  artists  this  romanti- 
cism was  signalled  by  a return  to  nature 
and  science.  Gericault  may  be  considered 
an  example.  His  anatomical  designs  have 
remained  celebrated.  He  modelled.  While 
painting  the  shipwreck  of  the  Meduse  he 
surrounded  himself  often  with  corpses.” 
The  2nd  of  July,  1 8 1 6,  the  Meduse  was 
wrecked  forty  leagues  off  the  western  coast 
of  Africa.  A hundred  and  forty-nine  per- 
sons took  refuge  upon  a raft.  Twelve  days 
later  the  brig  Argus  rescued  the  survivors, 
fifteen  in  number,  when  at  the  point  of 
death ; the  rest  had  been  claimed  by  the  sea, 
or  devoured  by  their  companions.  Gericault 
represents  the  raft  at  the  moment  when  the 
brig  heaves  in  sight.  It  is  covered  with 
livid,  distorted  figures,  dead  and  dying. 
The  canvas,  exhibited  in  1819  when  Barye 
was  twenty-three,  made  an  epoch.  Geri- 
cault’s  work  is  considered  to  have  exercised 
a sensible  influence  upon  Barye. 

In  the  year  1819  Barye  presented  him- 
[ I9°  ] 


BARYE 


self  for  the  first  time  in  a concours  for 
medals  at  the  Ecole  des  Beaux  Arts.  The 
subject  was  a medallion,  “ Milo  of  Crotona 
Devoured  by  a Lion.”  He  received  the 
third  prize.  Opinions  differ  with  regard  to 
the  merit  of  this  first  published  work  of 
Barye  ; some,  as  Gustave  Planche,  discover- 
ing therein  the  promise  of  all  his  future 
powers,  others  seeing  no  such  revelation. 
The  question  is  of  slight  importance. 
Barye’s  schooling  is  far  from  finished  yet ; 
his  creative  career,  in  the  monumental 
sense,  still  distant.  The  following  year, 
1820,  he  entered  the  competition  for  sculp- 
ture, winning  the  second  prize.  The  theme 
was  “ Cain  Cursed  by  God  after  the  Death 
of  Abel.”  For  four  successive  years  he  con- 
tinued to  compete,  but  unsuccessfully.  In 
1823  no  prize  was  awarded,  the  exhibits 
being  considered  below  the  grade  demanded. 
In  1824  Barye’s  work  was  not  even 
admitted. 

Already,  since  the  preceding  year,  Barye 
had  been  in  the  employ  of  the  goldsmith, 
Fauconnier,  of  the  Rue  du  Bac,  and  he  now 
abandoned  the  Beaux  Arts  entirely  and  re- 
turned to  his  craft.  Fauconnier  was  pur- 
veyor by  appointment  to  the  Duchesse  de 
[ ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Berry.*  Here  Barye  remained  eight  years, 
or  until  1831,  and  here  it  was  that,  under 
his  own  direction,  he  gained  his  art 
education.  He  was  married  at  the  time 
and  two  daughters  were  born  to  him.  Be- 
yond this,  and  that  wife  and  daughters  died, 
that  he  married  again  and  had  in  his  second 
marriage  a family  of  eight  children,  we 
know  almost  nothing  of  Barye’s  private  life. 
He  was  by  nature  and  resolution  taciturn, 
and  his  life,  in  contradistinction  to  that  of 
his  brother  artists  of  Barbizon,  has  for  us 
only  the  art  side.  But  that  is  so  grand  in 
its  steel-like  tenacity  of  purpose,  so  splendid 
in  its  steadfast  growth,  that  we  need  no 
opening  of  the  home  doors  in  order  to  know 
and  be  inspired  by  the  man  Barye. 

While  Barye  was  still  at  the  Beaux  Arts, 
he  studied  the  Egyptian  sculpture  which 
Cbampollion  was  arranging  in  the  Louvre. 
He  learned  much  therefrom  and  more 
probably  from  the  Assyrian  sculptures,  dis- 
covered and  brought  to  France  a score  of 
years  later.  To  the  Greco-Roman  collec- 
tions of  the  Louvre  he  was  also,  and  in  a 
large  degree,  debtor.  But  Barye  gathered 
information,  as  the  trees  absorb  the  ele- 


*The  Due  de  Berry  was  the  second  son  of  Charles  X. 


[ I92  ] 


B A R Y E 


ments  essential  to  their  growth  and  fruit 
bearing. 

Nothing  was  neglected  by  him  during 
these  years  of  discipline  that  could  contribute 
to  the  development  of  his  talent.  He  had 
no  theories  to  advance  in  the  wars  of  the 
schools ; he  was  not  militant,  not  even  a 
talker,  but  he  had  determined  where  and 
how  to  pursue  his  studies.  Though  no 
biographer  quotes  a sententious  declaration 
of  his  dating  from  this  period  to  the  effect 
that  Nature  is  the  first  and  last  teacher  to  be 
consulted  by  one  who  would  represent  life, 
such  was  clearly  his  resolute,  quiet  decision 
as  to  himself  and  his  studies  henceforth.  He 
drew  from  the  human  model  in  Suisse’s 
atelier , he  familiarized  himself  in  the  am- 
phitheatre, and  through  dissection  with  the 
physical  structure  of  men  and  animals;  he 
informed  himself  thoroughly  about  the  best 
methods  of  melting  and  casting  metals;  he 
made  himself  an  expert  in  every  branch  of 
his  craft ; he  copied  in  the  Louvre  the  works 
of  the  masters. 

The  Jardin  des  Plantes  was,  however,  his 
great  studio,  not  merely  at  this  time,  but 
thenceforward  throughout  his  life.  Many 
changes  in  the  line  of  growth  and  expansion 
[ *93  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


have  come  doubtless  since  Barye  first  began 
his  assiduous  visits  there  seventy  years  ago, 
but  the  general  features  are  the  same.  The 
Jardin  des  Plantes  is  not  merely  a menag- 
erie and  herbarium,  but  contains  also  a series 
of  museums  illustrating  all  the  different  de- 
partments of  natural  history,  with  library, 
laboratories  and  lecture  rooms,  wherein  to 
work  over  scientifically  the  material  col- 
lected, and  train  students  in  the  branches 
of  knowledge  there  represented.  In  the 
Garden  the  different  animals  are  to  be  seen 
living,  moving  behind  the  bars  of  their 
cages  ; in  the  Museum  of  Zoology  you  will 
find  them  stuffed  ; in  the  Museum  of  Com- 
parative Anatomy,  founded  by  Georges 
Cuvier,  you  can  study  their  skeletons  as 
connected  wholes,  all  the  bones  of  their 
structures  separately  and,  in  many  cases, 
casts,  representing  their  bodies  in  various 
stages  of  dissection.  This  was  the  day  of 
the  Cuviers.  Frederic,  the  younger  of  the 
two  brothers,  had  been  named  curator  of 
the  menagerie  in  1804. 

Barye  made  constant  use  of  every  facility 
of  instruction  afforded  by  the  Garden,  the 
Museums  of  Natural  History,  the  Menagerie 
and  the  galleries  of  Comparative  Anatomy. 

[ 194  1 


' MRY  E 

He  stuc  ovier,  and  works 

upon  1 It  is  clear 

th;  nd  the  repre- 

and  mytho- 

PMIpW  ■.  f he  courses 

of  lecture*,  V ''  he  was 

' ' -,v  the 


The  Pere  is  ho  was  the  keep  - • 

of  the  ferocious  animals,  had  become  his 
especial  friend.  “ He  opened  to  him  at 
five  o’clock  JvQry  "morning  the  doors  of 
the  menagerie  and,  when  he  saw  him  draw 
from  his  packet  a few  poor-  crusts  of  hard 

- fine 

of  ;i  taken  from  the 

atin  '»  P(;r>  Roc  \ 

■ 

y - nan,  rv  g ici 

the  o sts  of  Pere  !•  i worth v ; being 

reproduced.’’  who  sent  a mes- 
senger to  notify  h henever  an  animal 

C J9S  3 


B A R Y E 


He  studied  BufFon,  Cuvier,  and  works 
upon  history  and  mythology.  It  is  clear 
that  he  had  already  in  mind  the  repre- 
sentation in  statuary  of  heroic  and  mytho- 
logical incidents.  He  attended  the  courses 
of  lectures.  When  an  animal  died  he  was 
at  once  notified  by  a messenger  from  the 
garden  and,  dropping  everything  in  hand, 
hastened  thither.  He  measured,  drew  and 
sometimes  modelled  the  animal  before  or 
after  dissection. 

The  Pere  Rousseau,  who  was  the  keeper 
of  the  ferocious  animals,  had  become  his 
especial  friend.  “ He  opened  to  him  at 
five  o’clock  every  morning  the  doors  of 
the  menagerie  and,  when  he  saw  him  draw 
from  his  pocket  a few  poor  crusts  of  hard 
bread,  he  handed  to  him  some  fine  slices 
of  tender  bread  taken  from  the  daily 
rations  of  the  bears.”  Pere  Rousseau  lived 
long  enough  to  see  his  protege  become 
famous,  and  he  loved  to  talk  to  the  young 
artists  who  visited  the  Garden  about  the  in- 
defatigable ardor  “ of  that  thin  and  tall 
young  man,  always  silent,  who  first  found 
the  beasts  of  Pere  Rousseau  worthy  of  being 
reproduced.”  He  it  was  who  sent  a mes- 
senger to  notify  Barye  whenever  an  animal 
[ *95  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


died.  The  two  glories  of  his  life  were 
“ that  he  had  formed  Barye  and  that  he  had 
conducted  the  Emperor  Alexander  in  1815 
about  the  menagerie.” 

In  sum,  Barye,  having  seen  others  pre- 
ferred to  himself  and  his  own  work  con- 
demned at  the  Beaux  Arts,  resolved  to 
equip  himself  for  the  career  to  which  am- 
bition and  a steadfast  will  held  him,  by 
acquiring  a comprehensive  and  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  higher  organized  beings, 
living  and  dead,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
train  eye  and  hand  in  the  workshop  until 
he  had  become  a master  in  every  detail  of 
his  craft,  the  practical  working  of  the 
metals.  Furthermore,  the  great  artists  of 
old  must  yield  to  him  the  secrets  of  their 
power  and  inspire  him  to  work,  which 
would  earn  for  him  also  the  rank  of  master. 

His  work  for  Fauconnier  passed  of  course 
under  the  master’s  name.  We  know  that 
he  was  asked  to  make  a stag  for  a soup 
tureen  and,  after  studies  in  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes,  executed  the  order.  The  clients 
were  not  satisfied,  it  was  “ too  much  like 
nature,  not  noble  enough.”  The  official 
report  of  the  Exposition  in  1825  states: 
“We  owe  to  M.  Fauconnier  a collection  of 
[ 1 


good  rrv.  a 

anit1 

fr 

w>  . 


tation  ol  divers 
■ the  master  to 
his  employe’s 

studies 

few;  - i hi  t in 

ative 

.en 


■ 

cVocod^e!*^°¥^  fe,  W#h->CW  one-half 
life  size,  was  the  corner-stone  of  Barye  s 
reputation  and  of  his  artistic  career.  The 
f i be  day  shows  the  surprise  and 


ich  the  work  created.  Ch  rles 

hat  “ the  youm  ntu 

hv 


The  u 

trol,  <!>.• 
to  recog:. 


treated  Jll~ 

■tudying  ttic 

:r  occurred  t > anyone. 
:iool.  then  in  entire  Con- 
or eiud  ires,  was  constrained 
him  a d awarded  him  a medal 
>97 1 


B A R Y E 


good  models  for  the  imitation  of  divers 
animals.”  It  is  not  unfair  to  the  master  to 
find  therein  a recognition  of  his  employe’s 
work. 

After  four  years  spent  in  such  studies 
Barye  made  his  first  Salon  exhibit  in 
1827.  The  true  beginning  of  his  creative 
career  did  not  come,  however,  until  1831, 
when  he  was  thirty-five.  He  made  then 
exhibits  both  in  painting  and  sculpture. 
Two  of  the  three  works  in  sculpture  at- 
tracted general  attention,  a “ Martyrdom  of 
St  - Sebastien  ” and  a “Tiger  Devouring  a 
Crocodile.”  The  last,  which  was  one-half 
life  size,  was  the  corner-stone  of  Barye’s 
reputation  and  of  his  artistic  career.  The 
criticism  of  the  day  shows  the  surprise  and 
enthusiasm  which  the  work  created.  Charles 
Blanc  says  that  “ the  young  (romantic) 
school  was  astonished  and  delighted  by  the 
accent  of  truth,  liberty  and  the  sentiment 
of  life  therein.  For  centuries  ferocious 
animals  had  only  been  treated  convention- 
ally. The  idea  of  studying  them  at  the 
menagerie  had  never  occurred  to  anyone.” 
The  academic  school,  then  in  entire  con- 
trol, despite  its  prejudices,  was  constrained 
to  recognize  him  and  awarded  him  a medal 

[ 197  1 


B ARBIZON  DAYS 


of  the  second  class.  He  received  also  an 
order  for  a bust  of  Louis  Philippe. 

The  St-Sebastien  model,  given  into  the 
charge  of  the  administration  of  the  Louvre 
(Barye  having  no  suitable  place  for  it),  has 
disappeared,  broken  doubtless  and  carried 
away  bit  by  bit,  but  the  “Tiger”  was  cast  in 
bronze  and  in  1848  purchased  by  the  state. 
It  is  to-day  in  the  Louvre  galleries.  The 
chief  interest  of  this  group  is  from  the  com- 
parative side.  It  shows  the  point  of  de- 
parture of  Barye’s  creative  life.  It  is  strong, 
as  all  of  his  work,  but  it  lacks  the  grandeur 
and  the  poise  of  his  masterpieces.  The 
posture  is  one  of  tense  repose.  The  great 
cat  is  crouched  upon  all  fours.  The  tenta- 
cles of  his  muscular  fore-paws  hold  the  vic- 
tim as  in  a vice.  He  is  looking  down  upon 
the  writhing  amphibian.  In  another  mo- 
ment he  will  crunch  the  life  out  of  his  feeble 
prey  and  gorge  himself  with  the  dark  blood 
and  the  palpitating  flesh.  The  crocodile  is 
an  image  of  weakness  in  the  fast  clutch  of 
pitiless  strength. 

And  yet  the  sculptor  has  not  attained  the 
freedom  and  breadth  of  his  maturity.  The 
hairs  even  are  indicated.  The  body  does 
not  slip  forward  with  that  tense  and  tre- 

[ 198  ] 


B A R Y E 


mendous  muscularity,  that  feline  ductility, 
which  the  living  tiger  of  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes,  surlily  pacing  back  and  forth  in  his 
narrow  cage,  and  Barye’s  jaguar  of  1851, 
show.  Had  Barye  created  only  this  tiger 
and  the  other  masterpieces,  which  represent 
this  stage  in  his  development,  he  would 
scarcely  have  won  a secure  immortality. 
He  had  broken  a path,  pointed  out  a 
new  field,  astonished  and  surpassed  his 
age  ; yet  the  calm  breadth  of  execution,  the 
majesty  and  dignity  of  immortal  works, 
of  his  own  later  creations,  are  lacking.  But 
Barye  never  rested,  never  slackened  his 
efforts  to  assure  and  broaden  the  foundations 
of  his  art  through  the  study  of  nature  and 
of  the  masters,  to  give  suppleness  to  his 
hand,  exactness  to  his  eye,  by  constant  exer- 
cise and  observation.  Plis  talent  shall  soar 
upward,  but  on  strong,  even  pinions  ; knowl- 
edge shall  balance  and  guide  enthusiasm. 
His  life  from  1831  forward  is  therefore  as 
the  slow,  steadfast  ascension  of  a star. 

Charles  Blanc  says  that  the  life  of  an 
artist  when  Barye’s  career  began  was  not 
what  it  is  to-day.  The  world  sought  them, 
not  they  the  world.  Their  social  life  was 
passed  in  the  artist  reunions  at  the  cafes  and 
[ *99  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


restaurants.  Such  a gathering-place  of  artists 
and  men  of  letters  had  been  established  at 
the  Barriere  du  Maine  at  the  Mere  Saguet- 
Bourdon’s.  Barye  and  Sainte-Beuve  were 
among  the  first  admitted  to  this  circle. 
The  artist  Charlet  and  Alexandre  Dumas 
were  also  among  the  comrades.  Beranger 
came  sometimes.  Here  the  grand  battle 
for  the  triumph  of  Victor  Hugo  in  Her- 
nani  was  prepared.* 

There  was  no  Salon  in  1832,  the  cholera 
preventing  it,  but  in  1833  Barye  exhibited 
six  water  colors  representing  animals,  a 
frame  containing  medallions,  a bust  of  the 
Duke  of  Orleans,  and  ten  other  works  of 
sculpture,  the  most  notable  of  which  was 
the  “Lion  and  Serpent.”  Barye  had  left  the 
shop  of  Fauconnier  in  1831  and  begun  his 
independent  career.  All  his  leisure  since 
the  exposition  of  the  “Tiger”  in  that  year  had 
been  spent  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes.  This 
exposition  showed  the  results. 

The  effect  produced  by  the  “ Lion  and 
Serpent”  was  greater  even  than  that  caused 
by  the  “Tiger.”  The  celebrated  critic,  Gus- 
tave Planche,  who  appreciated  from  the 

* The  first  representation  of  Hernani,  the  21st  of  February,  1830, 
provoked  in  the  parterre  a veritable  conflict  between  the  Classicists 
and  Romanticists. 


[ 200  ] 


B A R Y E 


outset  Barye’s  powers  and  gave  him  in  his 
criticisms  helpful  counsels,  says : “ The 

‘Lion’  created  a general  cry  of  astonishment 
among  the  partisans  of  academic  sculpture. 
Very  soon  the  astonishment  gave  place  to 
anger,  for  the  public,  despite  the  remon- 
strances which  the  professors  and  all  who 
swore  by  their  maxims  addressed  to  it,  ob- 
stinately persisted  in  praising  Barye  as  an 
artist  as  happy  as  he  was  skilful.”  Barye 
was  decorated  with  the  Legion  of  Honor; 
the  “Lion”  was  purchased  by  the  State  and 
placed  in  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries.  The 
group  is  there  to-day.  It  shows  an  advance 
upon  the  “Tiger”  of  1831,  yet  it  belongs  to 
the  same  epoch  in  his  development. 

We  have  styled  the  lion  the  king  of  the 
beasts.  Looking  upon  him  as  personifying 
in  a supreme  degree  the  nobility  and 
strength  of  the  brute  creation,  we  have 
made  of  this  king  of  the  wilds  an  imper- 
sonation of  that  brute  force  which  alone  is 
worthy  to  serve  the  highest  types  of  man- 
hood or  humanity  in  those  employs  which 
are  the  most  heroic.  We  have  harnessed 
him  to  our  chariots  of  victory,  we  have 
placed  him  as  guard  at  the  portals  of  our 
temples  and  palaces,  we  have  installed  him 
[ 201 1 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


as  watch  by  the  tombs  of  our  heroes,  we 
have  made  him  the  prop  of  the  thrones  of 
our  kings.  But  the  lion,  as  a grand,  splen- 
did, savage  life,  finding  its  beginning  and  end 
in  self,  we  had  not  studied,  scarce  con- 
ceived, until  Barye  came. 

The  type  of  the  conventional  lion  is 
a familiar  one.  His  body  is  limp,  without 
bone,  muscle  or  nerve;  his  face  elonga- 
ted, venerable,  stupid;  his  eye  dull,  opaque; 
his  mane  falls  in  long,  heavy  curls,  strik- 
ingly resembling,  as  Theophile  Gautier 
suggests,  the  wigs  of  Louis  XIV.’s  time; 
his  paw  rests  upon  a ball.  He  could  not 
harm,  to  roar  were  impossible.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  the  granite  has  not  in  its 
pores  blood  enough  for  that  torpid  exist- 
ence. With  this  image  fresh  in  our  minds 
— a pair  of  these  nondescripts  face  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde,  one  at  either  side  of  the 
Tuileries  Garden — let  us  go  and  stand 
before  Barye’s  group.  The  kinship  is  ap- 
parent in  the  elongated  face,  in  the  form 
and  in  details,  but  Nature  is  shaking  off 
conventionality.  What  savagery  in  that  ex- 
pression, what  truth  in  that  attitude  ! How 
marvelous  that  relaxed  right  paw,  whose 
keen  claws  have  cut  through  the  serpent’s 
[ 202  ] 


1 


n:  ' . 

v 

' ■ rttfll  m: 

animius  under  a multitude  oi  details  ten 

Charles  Lem-  “ k ntor<  I -aw 


The  Lion  and  Serpent 


B A R Y E 


coil,  relaxed  that  in  another  instant  the 
clutch  may  be  fast,  mortal ! How  sugges- 
tive of  the  loathing  of  the  nobler  brute,  of 
his  involuntary  shrinking  from  the  fanged 
serpent,  that  head  lowered  and  turned  aside ! 
That  lion  lives  and,  if  you  wait  long 
enough,  you  will  hear  the  deep  growl  of 
the  wilds  escape  its  opened  jaws.  And  yet 
it  is,  though  nobler,  of  the  family  of  the 
tiger  of  1831.  There  is  the  same  care  in 
details,  the  same  lack  of  breadth,  grandeur, 
calm  strength. 

Gustave  Planche  said  : “ I shall  reproach 
M.  Barye  with  suffocating  the  life  of  his 
animals  under  a multitude  of  details  too 
pettily  reproduced.  Less  literally  exact, 
the  sculpture  of  M.  Barye  would  be  grander, 
more  beautiful;  it  would  be  less  real,  but 
more  true ; it  would  gain  in  elevation  what 
it  would  lose  in  puerile  fidelity.”  Alfred 
de  Musset  wrote,  when  the  group  had 
been  cast  in  bronze  in  1836:  “The 
bronze  lion  of  M.  Barye  is  as  terrifying  as 
Nature.  What  vigor  and  what  truth  ! . . . 
Where  indeed  has  he  found  a way  of  mak- 
ing such  models  pose  ? Is  his  atelier  a desert 
of  Africa  or  a forest  of  Hindustan?” 
Charles  Lenormant  said:  “The  more  I saw 

[ 203  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


that  combat  of  the  lion  and  the  serpent,  the 
more  the  impression  grew;  it  seemed  to  me 
at  first  the  lion  moved,  yesterday  I heard  it 
roar.” 

Theophile  Gautier  declares  that  the  old 
conventional  lions  scattered  about  the  public 
gardens  almost  let  go  of  the  balls,  ‘‘which 
keep  them  in  countenance,”  when  they  saw 
Barye’s  lion.  When  the  State  had  purchased 
the  group  and  placed  it  in  the  Tuileries 
Garden,  one  of  the  academicians  exclaimed  : 
“Since  when  were  the  Tuileries  a me- 
nagerie ? ” 

Despite  the  opposition  which  the  novelty 
of  Barye’s  work  and  its  success  with  the 
public  had  provoked  in  the  academic  camp, 
the  promise  of  the  future  was  rich  indeed. 
He  was  but  thirty-seven.  The  academic 
jury  even,  as  we  have  seen,  had  been  com- 
pelled to  recognize  him.  The  royal  family 
were  his  patrons.  Roger  Ballu,  in  his  biog- 
raphy, gives  an  engraving  of  him  as  he  ap- 
peared at  this  time  and  accompanies  it  with 
a word  painting:  “The  head  slightly  bent, 
the  eyes  large,  dreamy,  intelligent,  lively, 
not  flashing,  but  wide  open  and  reflecting  a 
certain  melancholy,  give  to  the  face  the  ex- 
pression of  a man  who  examines,  observes, 
[ 204  ] 


B A R Y E 


meditates,  scrutinizes,  then  resolves,  and  has 
the  energy  of  his  decision.”  We  read  in 
the  face  strength,  a mind  alert,  questioning, 
almost  suspicious. 

The  Due  d’Orleans,  Louis  Philippe’s  eld- 
est son,  ordered  of  him  a massive  table- 
piece,  in  gold  and  silver,  which  was  at  first 
intended  to  be  of  reasonable  dimensions  and 
wholly  the  work  of  Barye.  But  M.  Aime 
Chenavard  succeeded  in  intruding  his  per- 
sonality through  Barye,  in  his  good-nature 
and  his  desire  to  be  helpful,  permitting  his 
own  work  to  be  surrounded  by  a certain 
amount  of  architectural  work  of  this  artist. 
The  final  result  was  that  M.  Chenavard  as- 
sumed the  direction  of  the  whole.  If  it 
had  been  completed  according  to  his  de- 
signs, it  would  have  weighed  nine  thousand 
kilogrammes.  When  the  first  piece  of  the 
structure  was  brought,  it  was  discovered 
that  the  table  would  not  support  it.  This 
was  a trivial  thing.  M.  Chenavard  ordered 
forthwith  a new  oak  table  of  the  proper 
solidity.  Unfortunately  he  had  not  taken 
the  measures  of  the  dining-room.  When 
the  table  was  placed  therein,  no  space  was 
left  for  the  chairs.  Another  triviality  for  a 
man  of  M.  Chenavard’s  devices ! He  pro- 
[ 2°5  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


posed  to  push  back  the  walls  of  the  Tuiler- 
ies,  but  the  architect,  out  of  patience  with 
this  jesting,  interfered,  and  M.  Chenavard, 
disappointed  in  his  dream  of  adding  per- 
haps a new  wonder  to  the  seven,  died 
broken-hearted.  Though  M.  Chenavard 
had  a successor,  the  table-piece  was  never 
finished.  Barye’s  work  would  have  em- 
braced nine  groups.  He  was  busy  upon 
them  for  many  years.  They  were  not 
ready  in  1848,  the  year  of  the  Revolution 
which  expelled  Louis  Philippe  and  his  fam- 
ily from  France.  In  1863,  they  were  sold 
in  fragments  at  the  sale  of  the  property  of 
the  widowed  Duchesse  d’ Orleans.  The 
five  principal  groups  represent  five  grand 
hunts,  of  the  tiger,  the  bull,  the  lion,  the 
elk  and  the  bear  ; the  four  minor  groups, 
combats  of  animals. 

The  years  that  followed  until  1837  were 
busy  and  prosperous  ones  for  Barye.  He 
was  at  work  upon  the  order  of  the  Due  d’- 
Orleans;  the  Due  de  Nemours,  Louis  Phi- 
lippe’s second  son,  the  Due  d’Orleans  as 
well,  and  the  Due  de  Luynes  were  among 
the  purchasers  of  his  bronzes.  Only  a few 
new  works  were  exhibited  at  the  Salons,  as 
his  strength  was  given  almost  entirely  to 

[ 206  ] 


B A R Y E 


the  execution  of  the  table-piece.  There 
was  question  at  this  time  of  charging  Barye 
with  the  execution  of  a monumental  work 
of  supreme  grandeur.  Thiers  was  minister 
from  1832  to  1836,  and  eager  to  commem- 
orate in  stone,  in  some  surpassing  way,  the 
Napoleonic  glories.  He  seems  to  have  had 
a great  diversity  of  ideas  as  to  the  method, 
and  to  have  been  carelessly  generous  with 
promises  to  artists,  which  were  not  fulfilled. 
The  matter  is  unclear  ; but  we  know  that 
during  these  years  the  most  inspiring  pros- 
pects were  held  out  to  Barye  ; now  it  was 
the  decoration  of  the  entire  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, now  of  the  four  corners  of  the  bridge. 
The  plan  which  assumed  the  most  definite 
form,  was  that  of  crowning  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  with  some  grand  work  in  statuary. 
Which  of  the  two,  Barye  or  Thiers,  first 
suggested  the  imperial  eagle  is  uncertain. 
Charles  Blanc  says  it  was  Barye’s  idea.  The 
plan,  if  carried  out,  would  have  given  an 
eagle,  with  seventy  feet  span  of  wings,  de- 
scending upon  the  arch,  and  while  still  half 
supported  by  the  air  clutching  in  its  talons 
trophies  symbolizing  the  cities  and  nations 
curbed  or  crushed  by  the  genius  of  Na- 


[ 207  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Nothing  came  of  all  this,  but  in  1835 
the  State  asked  of  him  a Sainte-Clotilde  for 
the  Madeleine.  The  story  goes  that  Barye 
wished  to  chisel  a saint  bearing  his  wife’s 
name,  but  this  grace  was  not  given  him. 
This  opens  for  an  instant  the  fast  closed 
door  of  that  home  and  shows  us  that  love 
reigned  there.  The  Madeleine  figure,  strong, 
pure,  noble,  is  not  unworthy  of  Barye,  but 
as  one  looks  from  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
up  that  sloping  way  of  the  Champs-Elysees, 
unique  in  the  world,  and  sees  the  triumphal 
arch  at  the  end,  standing  forth  symmetrical, 
beautiful  against  the  sky,  one  can  but 
regret  that  France  did  not  give  to  him,  as 
Athens  to  her  great  sons,  work  worthy  of 
his  genius. 

The  jury  of  thirty-six,  that  struck  Rous- 
seau and  limited  his  talent  and  thus  the 
glory  that  France  would  have  won  there- 
from, had  spared  Barye.  But  he  did  not 
look  for  a continuance  of  such  consideration 
from  men  who  had  closed  the  doors  of  the 
Salon  to  Delacroix  and  Rousseau.  He  was 
not  therefore  disposed  to  exhibit  as  yet  the 
parts  of  the  table-piece,  several  of  which 
were  ready.  But  the  Duke  of  Orleans  in- 
sisted, saying,  “ I will  take  charge  of  it.” 

[ 208  ] 


B A R Y E 


The  bronzes  were  refused.  The  duke,  in- 
dignant, asked  the  king  to  interfere,  but 
Louis  Philippe  answered : “ What  do  you 
wish  ? I have  created  a jury,  I cannot 
force  it  to  accept  chef s-d’  oeuvre.”  Jules 
Dupre,  meeting  Barye,  asked  him  how  his 
work  prospered.  “ It  is  going  very  well ; 
I am  refused,”  answered  Barye.  Dupre  was 
indignant.  “It  is  altogether  natural,”  said 
Barye,  “ I have  too  many  friends  on  the  jury.” 
This  action  of  the  jury,  when  compared 
with  that  of  the  preceding  year,  seems  to 
indicate  the  purpose  of  serving  a sharp 
notice  upon  the  young  school  that  the 
old  canons  of  art  could  not  be  violated 
with  impunity,  and  the  approval  of  the 
public  did  not  carry  with  it  the  commenda- 
tion of  experts  in  art  matters.  The  reasons 
alleged,  that  the  groups  of  the  table-piece 
did  not  belong  to  the  domain  of  sculpture 
but  to  industrial  art,  and  that  they  were, 
furthermore,  genre  works,  seem  rather  props 
to  support  a weak  cause.  Barye  inter- 
preted the  action  in  the  sense  of  an  order 
to  submit,  or  cease  to  compete,  and  withdrew 
altogether  from  the  Salon  until  the  old  jury 
had  been  swept  away  with  the  monarchy. 
He  did  not  exhibit  again  until  1851. 

[ 2°9  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


The  year  1837  marks  thus  in  Barye’s  life, 
as  the  preceding  year  had  in  Rousseau’s,  an 
epoch.  As  Rousseau  turned  from  his  earlier 
limitless  ambition,  to  be  the  interpreter  of 
Nature  in  her  grandest  manifestations,  to  the 
trees  of  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau  and  was 
content  to  express  their  speech  in  “ that 
other  language,  painting;”  so  Barye  turned 
largely  away  from  monumental  art,  in  the 
grand  sense,  to  the  creation  in  bronze  of 
those  charming  little  animals,  which  were 
called  by  his  contemporaries,  half  in  pity, 
half  in  scorn,  paper-weights. 

The  royal  family  continued  to  support 
him.  The  Due  de  Nemours  and  the  Due 
de  Luynes  desired  also  to  have  table-pieces 
from  Barye’s  hand.  The  Due  de  Montpen- 
sier,  fifth  son  of  Louis  Philippe,  ordered  a 
chimney-piece.  Only  one  of  these  works, 
the  last,  was  executed,  and  the  principal 
group,  intended  to  be  placed  above  the 
clock  and  representing  “Angelica  delivered 
by  Roger,”  a theme  from  the  Orlando 
Furioso,  is  greatly  admired. 

During  the  years  prior  to  1840,  he  re- 
ceived and  executed  a commission  to  fur- 
nish certain  portions  of  the  Bastille  column. 
The  lion  that  is  walking  about  the  base  of 
C 2I°] 


B A R Y E 


the  column,  and  the  cocks  at  each  of  the 
four  corners  of  the  pedestal,  are  Barye’s 
work.  The  Bastille  was  captured  by  the 
Parisians  and  torn  down  July  14th,  1789. 

The  lion  is  the  zodiacal  sign  of  the 
month  of  July.  This  “Lion  of  the  Bastille” 
is  another  mile-stone  in  the  onward  march 
of  the  great  sculptor.  The  details  that 
weaken  the  lion  of  1833  have  disap- 
peared : the  head  is  nobler ; the  artist  is 

working  with  greater  freedom  and  breadth; 
one  step  more  and  he  will  attain  the  majesty 
of  the  highest  art.  The  lion  is  pacing  with 
slow  measured  steps  about  the  base  of  the 
pillar  erected  in  memory  of  the  brave, 
breathing  low  growls  as  he  goes.  Charles 
Blanc  says  of  this  lion:  “It  is  the  image 
of  the  people  guarding  their  dead.” 

Barye  the  artist  answered  the  action  of  the 
Jury  of  1837  by  making  himself  a manufac- 
turer, hiring  skilled  workmen,  watching 
strenuously  over  every  detail  of  the  fabrica- 
tion of  his  art  bronzes  and  selling  them  him- 
self. These  bronzes  embrace  not  merely  a 
Lilliputian  menagerie,  and  a series  of  statu- 
ettes, but  also  candelabras,  perfume  burners, 
fenders,  candlesticks,  cups,  even  inkstands. 
Shall  we  regret  or  rejoice  that  the  great 
[ 211  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


artist  was  constrained  to  make  his  art  sub- 
serve the  needs  of  the  multitude  ? Despite 
all  our  admiration  for  these  Lilliputians  and 
our  personal  satisfaction  that  a cat  or  rabbit, 
a lion  or  tiger,  may  serve  us  as  a paper-weight, 
when  we  stand  before  one  of  Barye’s  sublime 
creations,  we  do  regret  the  worse  than  folly 
of  French  art  rulers  from  1837  forward. 
There  stood  an  artist,  such  as  the  centuries 
yearn  for,  clear-headed,  firm-handed,  ap- 
proaching the  zenith  of  his  power.  He 
would  have  done  for  Paris  in  the  interpre- 
tation of  animal  life,  and  of  animal  and 
human  life  combined  also,  what  the  masters 
of  Greek  art  did  for  Athens. 

These  lions  and  tigers,  bears,  deer,  horses 
and  dogs ; these  eagles,  storks  and  pheasants, 
crocodiles,  serpents  and  turtles ; these  flying, 
walking  and  creeping,  wild  and  tame  crea- 
tures from  Lilliput  are  grand  despite  their 
diminutiveness.  The  modeling  is  always 
that  of  a master.  Because  they  were  little 
things  of  base  price,  they  were  not  there- 
fore despicable  in  his  eyes.  He  signed 
them.  He  signed  his  candlesticks  and  ink- 
stands  also.  Go  to  his  workshop,  he  is  a 
master  who  knows  better  than  his  best 
workmen — for  he  has  the  broad  compara- 
[ 212  ] 


BARYE 


tive  standpoint — every  detail  of  the  man- 
ufacture. Every  product  must  satisfy 
him ; if  imperfect,  it  must  be  melted  over  ; 
if  his  hand  is  needed  in  some  mechanical 
detail,  he  puts  on  the  green  apron  and 
shows  his  employes  how  the  work  should 
be  done. 

From  the  financial  side,  the  venture  was 
not  a success  ; he  supposed  naively  that  the 
merit  of  his  work  would  draw  the  public 
to  him,  but  it  did  not.  With  a large  de- 
pendent family,  carrying  a heavy  debt  * and 
harassed  by  creditors,  forced,  in  order  to 
satisfy  them,  to  give  them  his  models  as  se- 
curity, and  knowing  that  inferior  casts  were 
being  made  from  them  and  the  models  in- 
jured, not  a free  man  in  definite  possession 
of  his  own  until  1857,  Barye  walked  for- 
ward unshaken.  His  work,  his  art,  suffered 
not  an  iota.  With  Olympian  calm  he 
worked  and  awaited  the  justice  of  the  slow, 
sure  years.  Arsene  Alexandre  says : “ His 
friends  never  heard  him  utter  complaints  or 
cry  out  against  the  rigor  or  the  folly  of  the 
age.” 

Nor  was  the  grand  art,  the  monumental, 
altogether  neglected.  The  “Theseus  and 


* Incurred  in  order  to  establish  a foundry. 


[ 2I3  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


the  Minotaur,”  though  still  rather  statuette 
than  statue,*  is  already  Greek  in  its  serenity, 
and  belongs  to  the  Grand  Art.  With  1847 
he  sent  forth  from  his  atelier  the  “ Sitting 
Lion.”  That  was  his  first  public  answer  in 
monumental  work  to  the  closing  of  the  Salon 
doors.  The  answer  was  a complete  one. 
It  is  the  lion,  the  king,  who  is  sitting  there. 
We  doubt  if  ever  brute  majesty  has  been  as 
perfectly  represented.  Here  all  pettiness, 
all  small  lines,  are  effaced.  Terrible  in 
his  conscious  might,  ord  of  the  brute 
creation,  he  sits  there  as  on  his  throne, 
looking  forth  to  the  ends  of  the  world,  and 
there  is  no  life,  winged  or  four-footed, 
that  does  not  bow  before  the  lion,  the 
king.  The  State  purchased  it  to  make 
amends,  it  is  said,  for  his  failure  to  receive 
the  commission  to  decorate  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  and  placed  it  in  the  Garden  of 
the  Tuileries  not  far  from  the  “ Lion  and  Ser- 
pent.” It  was  removed  later,  and  now  faces 
the  Seine  at  one  of  the  entrances  to  the 
Louvre.  A pendant  was  desired,  and  Barye 
prepared  a model  (since  cast),  but  his  price 
was  too  high.  A replica  was  made  at  the 
State’s  order  by  purely  mechanical  processes, 

* Original  dimensions  47  centimetres  in  height  by  31  in  length, 

[ 2I4  ] 


The  Sitting  Lion 


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w; 

St 

* 


B A R Y E 


the  head  turning  to  the  right  instead  of  the 
left.  Barye  was  indignant,  but  had  no  re- 
dress. 

M.  Fremiet  visited  him  in  his  studio  in 
1846  when  he  had  begun  work  on  the 
“Lion.”  “All  the  lines  were  fixed.  The 
preparation  was  anatomical.  All  the  im- 
portant bones  of  the  skeleton  were  in  place, 
each  separately  added,  the  skull,  the  verte- 
bral column,  the  cage  of  the  ribs,  the  bones 
of  the  anterior  and  posterior  members.  . . .” 

In  a souvenir  of  artist  gatherings,  quoted 
by  Dumesnil  in  his  biography  of  Corot,  we 
find  Barye  and  Corot  charmingly  associated. 
“ The  thirteenth  day  of  the  month,  which 
was  in  Rome  that  of  the  grand  Ides  of 
April,  he  (Corot)  took  part  with  our  com- 
rades in  the  dedication  of  the  ancient  head 
of  Jupiter  Philios,  protector  of  friendship 
. . . . the  father  of  the  profound  and  in- 
genious Minerva,  of  the  laughing  Venus,  of 
Apollo  and  the  adorable  Muses,  the  toler- 
ant God,  venerated  by  Pythagoras  and 
Phidias,  as  much  as  by  Homer  and  Or- 
pheus. An  eloquent  invocation  was  pro- 
nounced by  one  of  the  great-grandchildren 
of  those  who  reared  temples  to  him,  and, 
meanwhile,  two  torches  were  held  before 
[215] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


the  venerable  image,  the  one  borne  by  M. 
Barye,  the  other  by  Corot.” 

Arsene  Alexandre  describes  a dinner  which 
united  regularly  Barye,  Corot,  and  a num- 
ber of  their  fellow  artists.  “ They  had  the 
habit  of  defiling  before  a big  [un  grand  dia- 
ble  de\  Jupiter  of  the  Vatican,  whom  all, 
united  in  the  same  antipathies,  loaded  with 
all  the  imprecations  intended  for  the  Insti- 
tute.” One  of  the  events  of  every  such 
gathering,  awaited  with  curiosity,  was 
Barye’s  turn.  “Ha!”  Corot  would  cry 
gaily,  “ il  a et£  tres  digne .” 

Forty-eight  came,  and  with  it  the  revolu- 
tion. By  it  Barye  lost  and  gained.  His 
royal  patrons  were  driven  out  of  France, 
but  the  Salon  doors  were  no  longer  closed 
to  him.  Of  the  commission  of  eleven, 
chosen  by  the  artists  to  have  charge  of  the 
sculptures  of  the  Salon  of  that  year.  Rude 
was  chosen  first,  Barye  third.  This  was 
the  day  when  the  outstanding  accounts  of 
aggrieved  artists  were  balanced  in  part. 
Barye,  as  Rousseau  and  Dupre,  received  or- 
ders from  Ledru-Rollin,  the  all-powerful 
leader  of  the  Republican  party,  now  Min- 
ister of  the  Interior.  At  the  suggestion  of 
Charles  Blanc,  Director  of  the  Beaux  Arts, 

[216] 


B A R Y E 


Barye’s  “Tiger”  of  1831  was  purchased  by 
the  State,  and  Ledru-Rollin,  furthermore, 
named  him  Conservator  of  the  Gallery  of 
Plaster  Casts  and  Director  of  the  Louvre 
Studio  of  Moulding.  Until  Barye’s  time, 
the  position  had  been  considered  a business 
opportunity.  The  Louvre  studios  furnished 
duplicate  casts  for  the  European  galleries. 
The  moulds,  purchased  by  the  director, 
served  as  long  as  they  would  hold  together. 
H ow  the  interests  of  art  and  of  public  in- 
struction fared  under  such  a regime  may  be 
imagined.  Barye  changed  all  this,  put  the 
best  casts  on  turning-tables,  made  a choice 
of  statues  for  reproduction,  ordered  new 
moulds,  and  surrounded  himself  with  a 
corps  of  skilled  workmen. 

Barye  re-entered  the  Salon  of  1850  with 
two  works  which  represent  the  full  maturity 
of  his  powers.  The  “ Centaur  and  Lapith,” 
afterward  called  “ Theseus  Combating  the 
Centaur  Bienor,”  and  the  “Jaguar  and 
Hare.”  Both  are  in  the  Louvre.  Theo- 
phile  Gautier  said : “ That  Centaur,  over- 
come by  a Lapith,  shows  that  Romanticist, 
proscribed  by  the  Jury,  to  have  been  the 
modern  sculptor  who  approached  nearest 

to  Phidias That  Lapith  of  robust 

[ 2I7  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


and  simple  forms,  beautiful  as  the  ideal,  true 
as  nature,  could  have  figured  in  the  pediment 
of  the  Parthenon  ....  and  that  Centaur 
have  joined  the  cavalcades  of  the  metopes.” 

There  are  in  the  Louvre  galleries  to-day 
two  bronze  casts  of  antique  sculpture — the 
originals  are  in  the  museum  of  the  Capitol 
in  Rome — representing  centaurs,  beside  a 
marble  group,  “A  Centaur  Conquered  by 
the  Genius  of  Bacchus.”  The  three  are  al- 
most identical  in  pose  and  in  their  main 
lines.  There  is  a conventional  model  of  the 
centaur,  and  these  three  statues  are  slightly 
varying  copies  of  one  original.  The  hind 
legs  are  near  together,  the  right  fore-leg 
raised  and  bent  backward.  In  the  marble, 
the  head  also  is  curved  backward,  and  the 
hands  joined  behind  to  express  the  subjec- 
tion of  the  half-brute  to  the  child  Bacchus, 
who  bestrides  it.  One  of  the  bronzes  has  a 
similar  motif.  The  hands  of  the  centaur 
are,  however,  bound  instead  of  being  clasped, 
and  there  is  no  child  upon  its  back.  There 
is  a certain  rude  strength  and  a suggestion 
of  a life  of  the  woods  about  these  antique 
sculptures,  but  of  motion,  of  intense  living 
in  any  form,  there  is  slight  trace. 

Cross  the  Louvre  court  and  enter  the 
[2*8] 


room 
■ hayt 


:*s,  but  ti 


br  ite  of  Barye  is  not  their  dcsc> 

File  lines  . 

noblei 


has  bent  backwards  the  right  hind  as  ten  i.- 
hat.  ha:  -brute  .has  its  stall  in  the  wood:  , 
the  free  crags,  and  the  storn  wind  is  its 
. 

ci.  , ot  bristling  hairs.  You  am 

strer  , 

The  Centaur  knows  that 
■ -\nd  Theseus  ! — h< 

• 

th<£  rrbnlt.*  , 


the  right 


***  ' pulsion  of  the  whc. 


The  Centaur  and  Lapith 


B A R Y E 


room  where  three  of  Barye’s  masterpieces 
have  been  placed  side  by  side.  The  “Tiger” 
of  1831  and  the  two  exhibits  of  1851.  It 
is  clear,  from  the  striking  analogies  in  pose 
and  lines,  that  the  “Centaur  and  Lapith”  of 
Barye  come  after  the  antiques,  but  the  half- 
brute of  Barye  is  not  their  descendant. 
The  lines  and  moulding  are  all  stronger, 
nobler.  The  hind  legs  are  placed  far  apart, 
the  right  far  forward.  That  creature  was 
an  instant  since  running  as  the  wind,  and 
the  forward  impulsion  of  the  whole  body  is 
tremendous,  despite  that  violent  arrest  which 
has  bent  backwards  the  right  hind  pastern. 
That  half-brute  has  its  stall  in  the  woods, 
on  the  free  crags,  and  the  storm  wind  is  its 
playmate.  The  tail  stands  up  a splendid 
shock  of  bristling  hairs.  You  can  read  the 
whole  story  there  : immense,  shapely  brute 
strength  and  suppleness,  with  every  muscle 
tense  to  bursting,  and  yet  the  spirit  cowering. 
The  Centaur  knows  that  a master  bestrides 
it.  And  Theseus ! — he  is  one  of  the  Olym- 
pians, serene,  severe.  His  raised  hand  will 
strike  but  one  blow,  and  that  will  crush  as 
the  thunderbolt.* 

* Both  the  Theseus  groups  were  retouched  during  many  years. 
Sometimes  he  left  a model  ten  years  before  casting  it. 

C«9] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


And  now  leave  the  Louvre,  and  taking  one 
of  the  little  Seine  steamers,  a swallow  or  fly 
( hirondelle  or  mouche ),  as  you  choose,  visit 
the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  and  stand  before  the 
cages  where  the  great  cats  are  confined, 
the  lions,  the  Bengal  tiger.  Notice  the 
grand  savagery  in  the  face,  the  packed  mus- 
cularity of  every  part,  the  slip  of  the  whole 
with  every  movement.  What  elasticity, 
backed  by  what  projectile  power  ! It  is  as 
elusive  as  the  sunset  hues  in  the  clouds, 
as  the  dance  of  light  upon  the  forest 
carpet.  What  sculptor  can  seize  that  ? Re- 
turn to  Barye’s  room  in  the  Louvre  and 
look  at  the  “Jaguar  devouring  a Hare.”  If 
you  put  your  hand  upon  the  bronze,  you 
will  feel  the  slip  of  the  muscles  beneath  the 
tense  skin.  Barye  has  missed  nothing, 
neither  the  spring  nor  the  strength.  His 
jaguar  is  life,  and  the  life  of  the  forests, 
which  is  other  than  that  of  the  cage,  and  is 
not  an  individual  but  a type.  That  is  the 
new  element  which  he  has  discovered  and 
added,  the  immortal  soul  he  has  breathed 
into  the  bronze.  And  that  is  genius. 

We  do  not  care  to  follow  Barye  the 
sculptor  farther,  step  by  step.  He  has  at- 
tained immortal  things  already.  He  will 
[ 220  ] 


The  Jaguar  and  Hare 


And  now.leave  the  Louvr e, and' taking  ;wi« 

••  the  little  Seine  steamers,  a swallow  or  fl) 
i mdelie  r mouche ),  s you  choose,  _jisit 
the  fardin  des  Plantes,  and  stand  before'  the 
caces  where  the  great  cats  are  confined, 
the  Hons,  the  Benga1  tiger  Notice  the 

:d  savagei  ' in  the  face,  the  packed  mus~ 

: itv  of  every  part  the  slip  oi  the  whole 

v h eve  y mov  :rrv  , V r elasticity, 

e no  :.r  !■  It  is  -as 

as  the  darn. 

■ 

* . .t,  Ac* 

vffiift  hnf, 

, 

tense 

hw  is  life,  and  the  life  of  the  forests* 
n individual  but  a type.  hat  is  the 
led,  die  immortal  sou.  le  has  breathed. 
We  do  not  care  to  follow  Barye  B •• 

- 

immortal  things  already.  H - if 

1 


B A R Y E 


not  advance.  Not  that  advance  were  im- 
possible for  him,  but  his  years  and  strength 
are  now  in  their  full  maturity. 

Barye  had  just  finished  a pendant  to  the 
“ Centaur  and  Lapith”  in  the  Louvre  one 
day  in  1850,  when  he  received  word  to 
withdraw  at  once.  The  order  to  vacate 
was  so  sudden  that  Barye  could  think  of  no 
better  way  of  removing  his  new  model  to 
his  home  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine  at 
the  Montagne  Sainte-Genevieve,  than  to  hire 
a hand-cart.  He  followed  it,  picking  up 
the  fragments  of  the  clay,  as  they  were 
broken  off  and  thrown  out  by  the  jolting 
over  the  cobbles,  and  when  the  house 
was  reached,  there  was  nothing  but  frag- 
ments. He  was  named,  we  are  told,  as  a 
sort  of  apology,  professor  of  drawing  at 
the  agricultural  school  in  Versailles,  but  the 
position  was  suppressed  the  following  year. 
It  meant  nothing  and  probably  was  so 
treated  by  Barye. 

The  “Jaguar”  appeared  in  bronze  at  the 
Salon  of  1852  and  was  purchased  by  the 
imperial  house.  The  fourteenth  of  Octo- 
ber, 1854,  Barye  was  named  Professor  of 
Drawing  in  Zoology  at  the  Museum  of 
Natural  History  at  a salary  of  two  thousand 
[ 221  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


francs  a year,  raised  in  1863  to  two  thou- 
sand five  hundred  francs.  He  held  this  po- 
sition until  his  death.  He  was  also  charged 
with  the  decoration  of  the  pavilions,  Denon 
and  Richelieu,  of  the  new  Louvre.  The 
chair  at  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  must  have 
been  a great  gratification  to  him.  There 
where  he  had  come,  untaught  by  the 
schools  and  refused  at  the  Beaux  Arts,  to 
study  directly  from  Nature  when  but  an 
artisan,  he  came  again  thirty  years  later, 
recognized  as  a master  in  animal  drawing. 
We  are  told  that  his  teaching  limited 
itself  to  such  remarks  as  these : “ Look 

at  Nature  and  make  your  choice ; ” 
“What  shall  one  teach  in  presence  of  that 
(Nature)  ? ” He  was  apt  to  forget  himself 
en  route  and  would  be  found  standing  before 
one  of  the  cages. 

The  action  of  the  Jury  of  1837  had  sent 
Barye  back  to  the  workshop.  We  are 
tempted  to  think  that,  with  that  deep, 
silent  determination  which  was  the  basis  of 
his  character,  he  resolved  then  and  there, 
as  a producer  of  these  same  little  things, 
scorned  at  the  time  as  of  the  jeweler’s 
craft  and  genre  works,  to  win  at  some 
future  day  complete  brilliant  recogni- 

[ 222  ] 


BARYE 


tion.  It  came  with  the  World’s  Exposi- 
tion of  1855.  He  was  member  of  the 
Juries  of  admission  and  of  awards;  he  ex- 
hibited in  the  Section  of  Beaux  Arts  the 
“Jaguar”  only,  but  placed  in  the  Section  of 
Industry  a collection  of  his  models.  The 
International  Jury  unanimously  awarded  him 
the  grand  medal  of  honor  in  the  Section 
of  Art  Bronzes,  and  he  was  thereafter  named 
Officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honor.  When 
the  Central  Union  of  Beaux  Arts  applied 
to  Industry  was  founded  in  1863  he  was 
named  president,  and  in  1868  he  was 
elected  to  the  Academy  of  Beaux  Arts. 

The  public  work  of  Barye’s  last  period 
embraced  the  four  groups  for  the  two  pavil- 
ions of  the  new  Louvre  ; the  decoration  of 
the  pediment  of  the  pavilion  of  the  Hor- 
loge ; the  equestrian  statues  of  Napoleon 
I.  for  Ajaccio  (Corsica),  and  a sim- 
ilar statue  of  Napoleon  III.  for  the  Porte 
du  Carrousel — this  last  was  torn  down  in 
1870 — also  groups  in  stone  for  Marseilles. 
The  most  important  of  all  are  the  groups 
in  stone  for  the  pavilions  of  Denon  and 
Richelieu.  They  represent  War,  Peace, 
Strength  protecting  Labor,  and  Order  pun- 
ishing the  Perverse. 

[ 223  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


The  constituents  are  the  same  in  every 
group,  an  animal  (horse,  bull,  lion,  tiger) 
reclines  in  the  background,  a man  and  a 
child  occupy  the  foreground.  These  groups 
recall  in  their  serenity  and  grand  lines  the 
“Theseus  ” of  the  Louvre  galleries,  and  reveal 
a kinship  with  Greek  sculpture.*  Barye 
does  not  seem  himself  to  have  been  entirely 
satisfied,  or  he  felt  that  his  powers  were 
waning.  He  said  one  day  on  the  scaf- 
folding before  one  of  these  groups,  “ They 
give  me  to  eat  when  I have  no  more  teeth,” 
and  similarly,  later,  referring  to  the  Statue 
of  Napoleon  III.,  “ I have  waited  all  my 
life  for  customers  and  they  come  at  the 
moment  when  I am  closing  the  shutters.” 
One  of  the  most  perfect  of  all  Barye’s 
single  figures  of  animals  is  the  “ Lion  walk- 
ing.” It  was  cast  in  silver  and  given  by  the 
Emperor  to  the  winner  of  the  Grand  Prix  of 
1865.  There  was  great  excitement  at  the 
time.  To  the  delight  of  all  good  French- 
men, the  English  horse  was  beaten  and  a 
Frenchman  won  the  hundred  thousand  francs 
and  the  Emperor’s  gift.  This  lion  is  now  in 
the  possession  of  Mr.  Walters,  of  Baltimore. 


* Guillaume  considers  the  human  figures  here  greater  than  in  the 
two  groups  of  “ Theseus.” 

[ 224] 


War 


; ^ :?V  ■ 

. 


-*^S»£V 

■ / -v' 


, . : ; i a o N 


IXy  V. 


he 


The  constituents'  are  the  same’  in  <3 
group,  an  animal  (horse,  bull,  lion,  tij 
reclines  in  the  background,  a ma*  an 
child  occupy  the  bregrounc  Tr.ere  gr< 
recall  in  their  serenity  and  grand  lines 
“Theseus  ” of  the  Louvre  galleries,  and  -ve^i 
a dm  hip.  with  G • • e»:  easy  me,  Bu;ve- 

-s  not  seerri  imseh  t ave  been  entirely 
satisfied,  or  he  felt  that  his  pow  -s  were 
■ 


fold  fig.  hi  y >•' 
give "ri re  to  ' 

i 


th 


\n 


oups 


[ They 


•wNT 


■utters. 


>.* 


iarye  s 

r 

: ; . h was  cast  in  silver  and  given  by  the 
■ 

time  To  the  delight  of  all  good  Preac.a- 
. 

Frenchman  won  the  hundred  thousand  n ancs 
a the  Emper  ks  gift.  i as  lion  is  now  in 
P session  of  iV  r,  Walters,  of-Lakuworc. 

Gui  r ' v'-^an  t ht>£  Wgt 

■ ;•  i ipS  of  ;■“  i hc.s<.  - ■ ’ 

r 224 1 


B A R Y E 


Sylvestre,  Barye’s  friend,  describes  him  as 
he  knew  him  at  the  zenith  of  his  powers 
and  reputation.  “ He  is  of  supple  figure 
and  above  middle  height ; his  dress  is  mod- 
est and  careful,  his  bearing  and  gestures  are 
precise,  tranquil,  worthy;  there  is  nothing 
dry  or  pedantic  about  him.  His  eyes  vigi- 
lant, firm,  look  you  always  frankly,  pro- 
foundly, in  the  face  without  provocation  or 
insolence.  The  brow  is  losing  its  short  and 
iron-gray  hair;  the  nose  is  slightly  turned 
up  ; the  parts  of  the  face,  of  a vigorous 
squareness,  are  finely  connected.” 

“ Barye  looks  at  you,  waits  for  you,  listens 
to  you  with  patience,  and  divines  infallibly 
your  thought.  All  his  words  hit  the  mark, 
but  they  seem  to  come  forth  with  effort  from 
his  thin,  strong  lips,  which  are  almost  al- 
ways sealed  by  wisdom,  for  with  him  the 
love  of  silence  is  a virtue.  Melancholy  and 
pride  breathe  forth,  escaping  from  the 
depths  of  his  soul,  and  diffuse  themselves 
over  his  clear  and  venerable  face.  That 
man,  altogether  superior,  detests  the  lie  and 
pomposity,  avoids  the  full  light,  guards  his 
mental  strength  for  his  work,  fortifies  his 
soul  against  adversity  and  follows  the  max- 
im, * It  is  better  to  be  than  to  appear.’  He 
[ 225  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


has  never  taken  an  ambitious  step,  never 
spoken  a servile  word,  and  there  is  no  trace 
in  him  of  that  jealousy  which  infiltrates  it- 
self like  a poison  in  the  heart  of  the  artist 
and  of  the  man  of  letters  ; forgetting  his 
own  works,  he  takes  pleasure  in  extolling 
those  of  others,  and  never  needs  to  be  in- 
formed by  common  report  in  order  to  rec- 
ognize merit.  I do  not  know  a contem- 
porary more  ready  than  he  is  to  hear  that 
which  is  true,  to  exalt  that  which  is  beau- 
tiful. He  carefully  avoids  talking,  or  listen- 
ing to  talk  about  himself.  You  must  draw 
words  from  him  one  by  one,  or  else  divine 
his  impressions.  You  would  believe  him 
soured,  an  egotist,  a dissembler ; no,  no ; 
Barye  is  simply  a strong,  loyal  and  chaste 
nature,  enemy  of  that  chattering  which  is 
the  curse  of  our  time.  He  talks  when  it 
pleases  him,  with  much  wit  and  clearness, 
and  he  could  rail  in  a biting  way,  but  the 
most  discreet  irony  suffices  him.  Pushed 
to  the  wall  he  would  be  implacable  and  ter- 
rible, as  a man  who  places  the  right  always 
on  his  side.  A naif  and  profound  observer, 
a great  sculptor,  a learned  naturalist,  a man 
sensitive  and  not  sentimental,  convinced  of 
his  own  worth,  without  vanity,  solid  in  his 
[226] 


B A R Y E 


affections,  despising  his  enemies  to  the  point 
of  forgetting  them,  very  charitable  toward 
others  and  severe  toward  himself,  behold 
him  ! ” 

One  who  lived  in  close  intimacy  with 
him  says  that,  while  he  was  silent  toward 
the  world,  alone  with  a comrade  it  was  a 
different  thing.  “He  was  an  exhaustless 
talker,  a sagacious  and  naif  critic.”  It  is 
clear,  from  the  pictures  drawn  of  Barye  by 
those  who  had  access  to  the  innermost  cir- 
cles of  his  friendship,  that  there  ('as  for  ex- 
ample in  Rousseau’s  loft-studio  at  Barbizon 
during  the  years  of  fatness),  the  mute  and 
reserved  man  became  full  of  animation  and 
sparkle.  Yet  the  self-restraint  and  the  sar- 
castic humor  native  to  him  did  not  even 
then  altogether  abandon  him. 

The  door  admitting  to  his  atelier  was 
closed  save  to  his  most  intimate  friends. 
Those  who  entered  found  him  working, 
sometimes  alone,  sometimes  his  wife  was 
reading  to  him  as  he  worked.  M.  Eugene 
Guillaume  says: 

“ The  atelier  presented  a unique  spectacle. 
Models  in  clay  and  wax  were  upon  the 
easels,  casts  still  unfinished  upon  the  tables 
with  the  tools  near  at  hand;  upon  the  wall 
[ 227  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


were  fastened  numbered  drawings  and  mod- 
els from  Nature.  The  master,  girt  with  his 
apron  of  worker  in  bronze,  modeled,  re- 
touched the  plaster,  chiseled,  inserted  parts 
in  the  vice,  examining  them  under  all  as- 
pects and  in  every  light,  leaving  nothing 
imperfect.  His  application  was  indefati- 
gable to  the  very  end,  and  only  when  he 
had  done  his  utmost  did  he  sign  his 
works.”  Roger  Ballu  describes  his  method 
of  building  up  a figure:  “Barye  did  not 
plant  iron  wires  in  the  base  of  the  model 
. . . He  modeled  the  parts  separately, 

one  by  one,  in  his  hands,  if  they  were  not 
of  considerable  dimensions;  on  a table,  if 
they  were  too  heavy.  When  he  had  gath- 
ered all  together,  he  sustained  the  parts  by 
exterior  supports  or  wooden  props  . . . 
His  work,  as  some  one  has  said,  resembled 
a ship  in  process  of  construction  with  its 
rigging  in  place.”  He  remained  thus  free 
to  the  end  to  make  whatever  changes 
seemed  wise.  Charles  Blanc  says  that  on 
entering  his  house,  Quai  des  Celestins,  “you 
traversed  a veritable  museum  and  seemed 
to  hear  a great  noise.  In  his  studio  you 
found  a man  calm,  chary  of  speech  and 
gesture,  but  of  an  expressive  face  slightly 

[ 228  ] 


B A R Y E 


animated  by  a fine  smile.”  All  agree  in 
emphasizing  Barye’s  insistent  vigilance, 
holding  his  art  always  up  to  Nature.  The 
portfolio  marked  “Service,”  which  con- 
tained his  notes  and  numbered  drawings, 
the  results  of  his  observations  and  measure- 
ments, was  always  within  reach.  In  the 
Beaux  Arts  collection  of  his  drawings,  one 
can  follow  him  through  all  stages,  as  he 
models  the  jaguar.  He  studied  first  the 
living  model  in  the  menagerie,  then  the 
skeleton  in  the  museum,  then  he  took  a 
dead  cat  and,  placing  it  in  the  position  re- 
quired, modeled  it.  What  wonder,  when 
he  saw  a fine  hare  in  the  cook’s  market- 
basket,  he  borrowed  it  and  sometimes  for- 
got to  return  it. 

His  contemporaries  admitted  his  suprem- 
acy as  sculptor  of  animals.  But  some  of 
them  said  that  he  was  only  an  animal  sculp- 
tor and  had  no  talent  for  representing  the 
human  figure.  Barye  felt  the  injustice  of 
the  criticism  and  remarked  with  some  bit- 
terness : “ My  brother  artists,  in  relegating 
me  to  the  beasts,  have  placed  themselves 
below  them.”  The  two  Theseus  groups 
and  those  of  the  Louvre  pavilions  furnish  a 
complete  answer  to  these  critics. 

[ 229  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


As  Michelangelo,  with  whom,  in  the 
spirit  of  his  work  and  life,  Barye  showed 
kinship,  he  was  painter  as  well  as  sculptor. 
His  contemporaries  knew  only  his  water- 
colors.  But  he  worked  also  in  oils.  These 
canvases,  however,  were  tightly  locked 
in  an  armoire  at  Barbizon.  His  work  as 
painter,  by  the  consenting  verdict  of  all 
critics,  exhibits  the  same  qualities  as  his 
work  as  sculptor,  “grandeur  of  aspect  and 
intensity  of  life.”  But  Nature  was  for  him 
rather  a setting  for  his  animals,  whose 
tawny  and  spotted  coats  he  admired  equally 
with  their  strong  and  supple  lines.  The 
sentiment  of  Nature,  as  a thing  to  be  loved 
in  and  of  itself,  the  poetry  of  the  earth  and 
sky,  the  brush  work  of  that  grand  colorist, 
the  sun,  were  not  his  to  interpret. 

Charles  Blanc  says  that  his  oil  paintings 
show  great  vigor,  character,  and  truth,  and 
at  a distance  could  be  mistaken  for  canvases 
of  Diaz,  Decamps,  Dupre,  or  Rousseau. 
The  execution  is  not,  however,  as  skilful. 
He  excels  only  in  water-colors,  but  he  puts 
too  much  vigor  into  them.  His  skies  do 
not  agree  with  his  earth,  because  he  had 
never  seen  the  skies  of  the  tropics.  Theo- 
phile  Gautier  adds,  “The  brush  of  the  mas- 
[ 230  ] 


B A R Y E 


ter  acquires  the  firmness  of  the  boasting- 
chisel.  You  would  say  that  it  was  made 
of  a lion’s  moustache.” 

Barye’s  Barbizon  life  is  associated  with 
his  work  as  painter.  His  village  home  was 
a modest  one,  as  modest  as  Rousseau’s. 
He  loved  to  escape  thither  and  wander 
either  alone  about  the  forest  or  in  the  com- 
pany of  his  friends  Dupre,  Decamps,  Rous- 
seau, Corot,  Franyais.  His  great  friend 
Millet  lived  there.  The  gorges  of  Fran- 
chart  were  a favorite  hunting  ground.  He 
did  not  travel,  and  the  forest  must  give  him 
the  skies  and  the  settings  of  rocks  and  trees 
for  his  colored  representations  of  animal  life. 

Late  in  July  we  wandered  through  the 
forest  to  Barbizon,  by  the  wood  paths,  a 
walk  of  fifteen  to  twenty  miles.  Twice 
roe-bucks  crossed  the  path  a stone’s  throw 
away.  One  turned  at  our  call  and  looked 
at  us  for  the  space  of  many  breaths.  A 
large  red  doe,  feeding  just  behind  the  fringe 
of  trees,  waited  until  we  had  passed.  Two 
deer  in  spotted  coat,  disturbed  by  a crack- 
ling branch,  bounded  away.  In  the  gloam- 
ing, you  will  often  see  the  wood  trio — stag, 
doe,  and  fawn — feeding  in  a wood  path,  or 
in  the  strip  of  grass-land  on  the  forest  edge. 

[ 231  ] 


BARBIZON  DAYS 


Wild  boar  are  said  to  inhabit  the  wood. 
Rabbits  and  hares  swarm  multitudinous  in 
the  enclosed  warrens  and  open  fields  until 
the  chase  opens.  Occasionally  a pheasant 
may  be  seen  stalking  across  a square  of 
ploughed  land  cut  into  the  forest  domain. 
Barye  knew  all  the  habitudes  of  this  animal  life 
of  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau.  He  saw  too, 
in  imagination,  in  the  gorges  of  Franchart 
and  Apremont  the  fierce  life  of  the  Indian 
jungles  and  African  wilds. 

Heart  disease  came  upon  the  stubborn 
worker  toward  the  last  and  held  him  to  his 
chair.*  Corot’s  death  was  kept  a secret  from 
him.  One  day  his  wife,  dusting  the 
bronzes,  remarked,  “My  friend,  when  thou 
art  well,  thou  shouldst  see  to  it  that  the 
signature  of  thy  works  be  more  legible.” 
“ Be  tranquil,”  answered  the  dying  Spartan, 
“ twenty  years  hence  they  will  search  for  it 
with  a magnifying  glass.” 

* He  died  June  25th,  1875. 


[ 232  ] 


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LJ.  Srtth.  Charles  Sprac 

Barblzon  days  Millet.  Corot.  Rousseau. 


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